In the Eyes of My Beholder
by HsptlBedCrawl
Summary: A young woman, trying to escape her shady past and distraught over her experiences with 'beauty' seek to start a new life in the Paris Opera House. Caution: Definitely NOT for the flufflovers! Chapter 32 is up!
1. Cursed

He had been cursed from the day he entered the world until the day he abandoned it.

So much hope, so much fear stared at me through those depthless eyes. _My God, those eyes_! Red, swollen, brimming with tears, yet inexplicably beautiful. Trance-like, plunging me into a state of sheer ecstasy. I gaped for endless moments at the man that kneeled before me, kneading my skirts through his fingers like a child, begging me, pleading for me to stay with him. I knew that I could not. My heart felt as if it were being ripped in two, such pain I had never experienced before. My trembling hands began to smooth his mussed hair, whispering that 'everything was going to be alright'. But, as this broken man before me choked through his sobs, I couldn't help but wonder, 'Would anything ever be alright again?'

I was cursed. Cursed from the day I met Him until the day we parted.

His curse was his face, ironically, so was mine.


	2. Of Hopes and Dreams

I had been born into a wealthy Italian family that owned a villa outside of Sicily. My father, Giovanni deCapriana, had been making wine at our estate since he was a little boy. Generations upon generations had lived at the house, creating an empire and a reputation for producing some of the finest wine in the region. My mother, Emilia Scantenelli, was somewhat of a Calbresian socialite. Spirited, vivacious, and always curious, entreating the world to offer all it could to her. Sold into marriage at the early age of 15, an arrangement put forth from her father, she came to wed Giovanni. Resilient at first, Emilia soon became accustomed to her new life and even grew to love my father. Nothing could enhance their joy when I, their first and only child was born.

"Her face! Have you ever laid eyes upon a more lovely face than hers?" my mother beamed, offering my infant body to my father. He took me in his arms, cradling me, staring at me with wonder. His eyes darkened, his smile slowly formed into a frown. "Alas, it his her curse, Emilia." He stated, laying the bundle back into my mother. "What…how can this be? Look at her Giovanni, she is perfect, the most beautiful face I have ever seen. _Mi bella_…" my mother cooed at me.

"Yes," my father agreed, "but, with time, you too will see this burden she carries. For no one can behold such raw, untainted beauty without evil ascending upon it." And with those words, I came into the world.

My childhood had been normal enough. The vineyards were my playground and I spent endless hours marveling at the harvest. Gorgeous flowers, so fragrant and enchanting encompassed our family's garden. Massive trees, perfect for scaling, grew over the property. It truly was paradise on Earth. I was so entranced by the beauty of nature, not even the smallest bud of a flower, nor the plainest blade of grass went unnoticed, un-worshipped in my eyes. _Beauty_, a word that I had heard often. My mothers friends, when they came for their weekly chat sessions with my mother, would gasp in astonishment at me. They came in hoards, pinching my rosy cheeks and remarking, "Come bello è! How beautiful she is, Emilia!"

I had been raised as the perfect Italian daughter. Polite, sociable, and fiercely loyal to my family and it's name. All that changed one summer. I was 14, and coming into my own. My fascination with beauty led me to experiment and master the art of aesthetics. I would beg my mother to help her prepare for social gatherings, applying powder and curling her hair just so. In a short period of time, I had perfected my craft and began practicing my techniques on myself. I would stand for hours, gazing at myself in the mirror, learning where to apply rouge, how to fashion my hair. For the first time in my life, I thought myself to be beautiful. As beautiful as the garden in my backyard, as beautiful as the mockingbird's song drifting through the warm summer mornings. My hair, light brown with auburn highlights hung down to my waist, a gentle wave running thorough it. My skin, lightly tanned from afternoon's spent outdoors and Mediterranean blood coursing through my veins. I was petite, 5 foot 3 inches at the most and possessed what my mother called a dancer's figure. And my face…my face was astonishing. Perfectly symmetrical in every way. Exquisitely arched eyebrows atop my large, doe brown eyes, abundant with thick, black eyelashes. A small, feminine nose, high cheek bones, and plump, sensuous lips. I truly understood what beauty meant, and knew that I retained it.

"Alessandra!" my father scowled. "What have I told you about staring at yourself in mirrors?"

" I know, it's very vain of me, papa. But I was just practicing my aesthetics!" I proclaimed.

"Tsk, such a foolish fancy you allow yourself to indulge in! Come now, there is someone I want you to meet."

I nodded and mentioned I would be downstairs in a few minutes. As he turned and left the room, I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. _Yet another suitor! _For the past few weeks my father had been bringing men from around the country to our doorstep to be introduced to yours truly. At 14 years old, I was nearing the acceptable age for marriage, and marriage is exactly what my father had on his mind. These men, so shallow and dull, bored me to tears with their stories of world travel. How they gained their fortune, what type of wine they preferred with their parmesan di melanzana, would it ever end? At the end of each meeting, the suitors would politely press their lips (of which I am sure were very sore from talking so much) to my hand, bow and leave the room, my father hot on their tail.

I lightly pressed my hand to my forehead, I could already feel tension swelling up in my sinuses. However, I was a good daughter and did as I was asked. I straightened my shoulders, smoothed out my hair, and proceeded downstairs where a flurry of laughter skirted through the halls. "Signore, my daughter, Alessandra, would make a fine wife."

"Oh, I have no doubt that she will. Her beauty is well known throughout this region, and in many others as well. Now its simply a matter of…funding."

I scoffed. There was no way my papa would sell me off to this man. No way I would be forced into marriage without ever meeting my future husband.

"Of course, of course! Right this way, Signore. We have much to discuss," my father motioned for the man to follow him into the dining area. I hid in shadows on the upper stairwell, staring down at my father and this suitor. I gasped in utter delight. He was incredibly handsome. His golden blond hair fell just above his shoulders, which were impeccably sculpted. Couture so fine, I could not recognize the style, foreign perhaps. He did speak with a soft, lilting accent, I recognized it as French. My attitude had changed considerably from woe to delight, the thought of becoming this man's wife was not so horrid after all.

The next few moments were a blur. I was introduced to him, and I could not help grinning from ear to ear, my cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. "Alessandra, this is Vicomte Audric de Aldridge, from France!" my father bellowed, obviously delighted towards the fact that this man was of impressive blood lines. I sat next to him while he and my father arranged my life out in front of me. I paid little attention to the seemingly minute details, I was too entranced by the sheer beauty of this man. I now longed to be his wife, to wake up every morning and see his dazzling smile hovering over me, to be enraptured in those strong arms. They were both staring at me. "Alessandra, what do you say? Will you accept Signore de Aldridge's proposal of marriage?"

"Of course," I managed to squeak.

It was settled, I was to leave my home in the morning and travel with my new fiancée to his manor, south of the village of Marseilles.


	3. A Rude Awakening

I left my parents with nothing but high hopes and fanciful dreams. However, I arrived in France facing a harsh reality. My fiancée had been charming enough. We had made polite conversation throughout our journey, and I imagined that, in time, our relationship would blossom into love. When I gathered enough courage to inquire about our wedding he simply laughed and stroked my cheek, "Darling, there will be no wedding." I was appalled! "No wedding, but my father…I am to be your wife," I stammered.

"Perhaps I forgot to mention how my family _acquired_ its finances. I, along with my brothers, run a bordello. The finest in all of France! And you, belle, are guaranteed to be a best seller," he smirked glaring at me hungrily. I felt so foolish, so naïve. I believed that my life was going to border that of a fairy tale, but now it felt a horrendous nightmare, one that I would not wake up from for a long time.

My life at the de Aldridge manor was scandalous to say the least. I had no choice but to continue with this _career_. Returning home would shame my family, and I could not bear to see the look of disappointment on my father's face. Imagine a daughter so beautiful who could not even be sold into marriage! After arriving, I immediately began building a strong clientele list. I was nervous at first, strongly believing that sex was only something to be had in a marriage. But, eventually I loosened up and succumbed to the horrors of the job. There was to be no wedding, I belonged not to one man, but to the rich, powerful society of Paris. The other girls working there were pleasing to the eyes, but it became obvious that I was favored by Audric and his brother. I was working nearly every night, building up a staunch reputation. I had learned to block out any and all emotion. I was taught to make men believe what they wanted to believe, to live and act out their grandest desires. Some nights I was a tempting seductress, others I was a shy debutante. _I was whatever they wanted me to be_. I had control over these men, utter and complete control when I was in their beds. I had brought royalty, noblemen, princes, and kings to their knees! It made me feel powerful, stark, but it did not make me feel beautiful. Though it was commented on many times, beauty is not what I saw when I looked in the mirror anymore. I began to resent the word and all that it represented. After all, it was my beauty that lured men to me, that made the Vicomte decide to recruit me to his brothel.

I lived this way for 10 years, earning more money for the de Aldridge's than any other woman had. Audric adorned me with the finest clothes, the most stunning of jewels. I had to look the part of a ravishing beauty, though inwardly, I despised my looks. I had convinced myself that this life chosen for me was not so terrible. I had a roof over my head, a very fine roof at that, clothes, food, diamonds, what more could a woman want? Love? No, love was just an idea, a notion for fools. It was desire, lust that ruled the world, and I was bountiful in both.

One evening, after servicing a very noble member of the royal family, my life again had taken a sharp turn. As I was retrieving my wages and rearranging my skirts, the man who shall remain nameless' wife burst into the room. Accusing him of adultery, she threatened to have me exiled, no, killed! Of course, he did not defend me. He agreed with her, blaming me for seducing him! The family was very influential and I had no doubt that I would not survive for long if I stayed at The de Aldridge Manor. I fled that night, taking with me whatever I could carry. The cool Parisian air whipped at my face as I ran, tears soaking my rouged cheeks. I knew not where I was running to, but I knew what I was running from and that encouraged me to continue.


	4. A New Beginning

I rented a small room at a boarding house for the night. I settled in and though I tried to avert my thoughts to something more constructive, I began sobbing uncontrollably at the Hell that was my life. When I had finished weeping, finished pitying myself, I resolved to let this be a new beginning. I realized that my funds were not going to be able to support me for long. Could I begin my own brothel? No, I could never force that pain upon other women. I would never again enter another man's bed unwillingly, I silently promised myself this. I sighed and walked over to the small mirror that the tiny room possessed. I glanced at my reflection, I barely recognized this woman anymore! My eyes, once bright and full of life were now dark and sinister. My complexion paled, color drained from my face. I hesitated, but then continued to enhance my appearances with make up. I smiled, remembering my fascination with aesthetics when I was younger. Perhaps, this was a potential career choice for me. I could find a theatre troupe and apply for costuming and makeup. I slept with these thoughts, and an inkling of hope running through my mind.

In the morning, I left the boarding house and hit the streets of Paris. Walking through the crowds, I had noticed more than one familiar face, and ducked out of site when they turned around for a second look. I did not need one of my former clients recognizing me.

I had applied to many theatres that day, all of them thanking me for my interest, but were sorry to say the position had already been filled. It was late, nearly sunset when I first laid eyes on the Opera Populaire. Intricate and colossal, the building loomed over the avenue, casting a sinister looking shadow among the crowds. I hesitantly entered and was instantly plunged into chaos. Apparently, the cast was preparing for a production that was to be put on later this evening. My supplies tucked away in my bag, I straightened my back, straining under the heavy load.

Suddenly, a tall man strode toward me. His voice was frantic, "Mademoiselle Rounieux? We have been looking for you everywhere! You are needed in the costuming department. La Carlotta has had an adverse reaction to the stage makeup, her face has swelled up like a giant boil! Please do hurry!" He seized my arm, and before I had any time to protest he led me into the depths of the Opera House.

"Argh! This is a complete-a disasta! Look at my face! Look!" the woman glared at me. "Ah, no, no no! Andre this is all wrong! This is not-a the woman who did _this_ to meh!"

"You are not Mademoiselle Rounieux?" the man blinked, "You an actor then, no? Perhaps a dancer?"

"No, monsieur. My name is Alessandra deCapriana. I came to the Opera Populaire to inquire about a position here. I am trained well in the area of aesthetics, I see that you obviously need help in that area if I am not too bold in saying so." I gestured toward the woman who was nearly screaming in fury.

Andre sighed, looking helplessly at La Carlotta. He turned back to me, "You're hired. Welcome to the Opera Populaire, mademoiselle deCapriana," and with that he clicked his heels and strutted out of the room, leaving me with the hysterical woman.

So began my career at the Opera Populaire.

I easily settled into my new life here. My days were occupied researching the looks of various characters for the Opera's latest production and critiquing them. The performers were pleased with my work, or rather if they were displeased, they did not mention it to me. My room belonged to the former makeup artist, who mysteriously disappeared. Rumors stirred that she became possessed by the notorious Opera Ghost and fled the theatre, fearing for her life. I laughed at the stories the tiny ballerinas shared with me as I arranged their hair for performances. "So, there is a ghost here at L'Opera Populaire?" I laughed.

"Yes, Alessandra. They call him the Phantom of the Opera. He stalks the catacombs and the rafters. It is not a joke, nor is it to be taken lightly. There have been too many…accidents," a young ballerina shrugged. I persisted the subject further, and she indulged me into the history of this phantom. What a dark history it was! Hangings, stalkings, and of course, the infamous fall of the chandelier that nearly destroyed the Opera House. I had overheard this from Audric who was a regular at the Opera. He explained with great excitement to his brother of the accident, of the kidnapping of the young Christine Daae, whom was now married to the Vicomte deChagny, good family friends of the deAldridge's. "Well, I certainly hope that this Opera Ghost can apply rouge because if you do not sit still he will be forced to overtake my position seeing as I will be fired!" I sighed at the girls, hurrying them onto the stage, and retreated to my room.


	5. Never a More Tragic Tale

I flopped down onto the cold, cotton sheets. My face buried into a pillow, I sighed heartily, my body racked with exhaustion. For nearly two weeks now I had worked non-stop developing concepts for the stage makeup of the Opera Populaire's latest production of _Faust_. Days were spent hunched over sketches and practicing the application on the cast, many of whom were very impatient of having to remain solitary in a chair for hours. Rolling over on my back and stretching out my compressed spinal muscles, my body relaxed, and my mind began to drift, my eyes curiously scanning over my room. _What an odd place this theater is!_ Nearly all the suites I had visited were adorned with a large, full-length mirror often placed in the middle of the room. At first I thought this was due to, in part, the actors' vanities, but I soon began to realize these mirrors were everywhere! At the end of hallways, dressing rooms, there was not a place in the Opera House in which you could visit without seeing your reflection gazing back at you.

Staring at this oddity, I stood up and hesitantly walked to it. I shivered. Not because of the draft which seemed to becoming from this direction, but because….no. _Alessandra, you are being ridiculous! There is no such thing as The Opera Ghost!_

Working at L'Opera Populaire also meant divulging yourself into its dark history. This _Phantom_ was on the tips of everyone's tongues. Rumors, scandals, and gossip were on the top of the ballerinas' favorites list of discussion topics. In my two weeks, I had learned more than I ever cared to know about The Phantom of the Opera. How he had murdered a stagehand, stalked the hallways, kidnapped an aspiring talent, and set fire to the theater, nearly destroying it. But what intrigued me, no frightened me the most was how he had seemed to know everything that occurred under this roof. Under my roof. For all I knew he could be there, standing in front of me behind the mirror. Staring. Prying. Plotting. I despised this character, that is, of course, if he really did exist. _What kind of a man could do such horrible things?_ A disturbed man, a tragic man, a lonesome man.

Out of sheer curiosity, I offered my hand to the mirror, gently placing it atop the cold, reflective surface. I stared at it and tried to peer through it. A feeling of electricity washed over my tiny frame. My breathing increased, my palms becoming sweaty. I could almost_ feel_ a presence in the room, whether or not it was the infamous Opera Ghost, I would not know.

"Mademoiselle? Are you alright?" a strict voice broke through the tense silence. I whirled around and found Madame Giry glancing rather curiously at me.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Madame. Just admiring this beautiful mirror."

"Perhaps it is not wise to indulge into your curiosity, Alessandra, you might not like what you find," and with that, she slipped out of my room. Exiting as silently as she had entered.

I took her advice and backed away from the mirror, my eyes never leaving my reflection. Trying to push this ludicrous tale out of my mind, I found it difficult not to dig further into the story. _What had happened to this poor man? What had led him to such insanity? _And, for the first time, I began to feel sympathy for this man. I began to have empathy for this man. Clearly, he had been wronged in his life, severely damaged. He had, after all, lived his life in the bowels of the theater, shying away from human contact. Longing for, pining for something he could never have. Someone he could never hold. Denied what any human had the right to. A right to live, a right to love. To need and be needed. _Oh, how tragic this story was!_ Now, there was no doubt in my mind that He did exist, for no one could imagine a story more woeful than His.

My eyes began to droop, and it became difficult to keep them open. I undressed from my day wear, releasing myself from the confines of my corset. I moaned and arched my back, running my hands over the tense muscles. I caught a glimpse of my bare body in the mirror, suddenly feeling shy and turned away from my reflection. _Just in case_, I told myself.

Only after I sat down at my vanity and began to brush the knots through my hair did a strange sound reach my ears. I froze, straining to listen. I was sure, absolutely sure that in my room, behind my walls, did I hear footsteps retreating. Soft, graceful footsteps, but heavy nonetheless. And a soft swishing, like that of a cape.


	6. Illusions of Beauty

The next days passed without incident. My nighttime fright, pushed back into the recesses of my mind. Never looming over my actions, but still there, stirring under the surface.

Time at L'Opera Populaire, began to pass quickly. It had now been over a month since I first came to the theater. I submerged myself in my work, making it the sole focus of my time. I had managed to convince myself that if I was too busy to think, I would soon begin to heal. Every so often when a male actor or one of the managers glanced at me, I felt a pang of remembrance. A reminder of my past. I wondered what they thought of me, if they were interested in having me. I scolded myself for thinking such things, _old habits die hard_.

_Eventually, they would all catch on. _"What is such a beautiful, talented woman doing wasting her youth at an Opera House? Certainly she must have suitors," the cast would mutter. If only they knew the truth…

I had, more frequently began to hear whispers, rumors of my past circulating throughout the theater, and I began to feel outcasted. A good amount of the stronger sex had proposed relations, hinted at me, stared at me. I could feel their eyes burning through my skin, and for a brief moment I would feel empowered. In control as I had been with my clients. But this was not what I wanted! I never wanted to employ myself in such a way again! Disgusted with my thoughts, I decided that something must be done. From then on, I did as much as I could to alter my appearance. I no longer wore flattering couture, I tucked my jewels away in my bureau. My hair mashed into a crude chignon at the nape of my neck, my cheeks un-rouged, and my once bright eyes concealed by rings of darkness. Now, perhaps, I could focus on the task at hand, making others attractive. My job was to create beauty, illusions. That's all that beauty really was, anyway. An illusion. Under the surface, under everyone's looks, lie secrets. Lie imperfections.

I was surrounded by beautiful little ballerinas, with perfect pointed feet, and naïve little minds. I pitied them in a way. _How much they rely on their beauty!_ Would they have as much attention if they were unattractive? Did the world care for homely people?

Not everyone at the theater was completely shallow, however. I eventually got to know a delightful soprano named Charlotte. She had recently become an understudy for La Carlotta, which I was told was now absolutely necessary after an unfortunate incident during one of last year's performances. Although she was not the brightest of the bunch, she was pleasant to converse with. Over my days there, we had become rather good acquaintances. _Were we friends?_ No, to be honest, I had never had a friend before. My parents didn't send me to receive an education, so I had no peers in which to associate with. My days of my youth were spent with cousins, aunts, and uncles, but I had never any one to call my 'friend'. Still, I enjoyed Charlotte. She was not snobby and conceited like much of the cast, she loved to talk, and I always had a willing ear.

We chatted, in complete randomness while I arranged her hair. She would tell me stories of her childhood, where she grew up, how she came to the Opera House. I smiled, she reminded me of myself when I was younger. So vibrant, so full of life. So full of hope.

"Alessandra, what is your…status with…men? I mean, do you have a suitor?" she asked hesitantly. I sighed, I knew this would topic would come up eventually. There was no doubt that she too had heard the whisperings of the scandal-loving ballerinas.

"Well, to be quite honest, no. No, there is no one to whom I belong to," I stated simply. _It was the truth, after all. _My hands began to fumble while combing through her tawny waves.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Alessandra! I did not mean to pry, it's just that…well, you know, there have been _rumors_ going around."

"I'm quite aware of that. I don't see how my past is of anyone's business here at L'Opera Populaire," I scoffed, my face becoming flushed as the heat rose through my body.

"Of course, I completely agree," she paused, looking dumbfounded. Then, her eyes went wide, and asked, rather enthusiastically, "So, have you heard of the Opera Ghost?" It was obvious Charlotte was trying to change the subject. But why did it have to be about Him?

"Yes," I sighed, "such a miserable tale. I really do feel quite bad for him," discussing the Phantom was a lot less complicated than explaining my past. Charlotte had offered me a way out, and I gladly accepted it.

"How can you feel sympathy for a murderer, Alessandra?"

"I don't know," I said honestly, "I think, it is not really his fault. I can not blame him for his actions after having been treated so horribly. Perhaps he is just lonely…" my voice trailed off.

"Well, in my opinion, he is a monster! They say he has the face like that of a corpse and reeks of death. What horrendous things he has done! Marie says she saw him just the other day upon the rafters, swinging a noose around, pacing back and forth like a madman. I tell you, he _is_ a monster!"

"Perhaps, Charlotte, it is not best to believe everything you hear," I said, giving her a slight pat on her head and shooing her away to rehearsals. She turned back and smiled at me, cocking her head to the side slightly.

"You know, you are a kind woman, Mademoiselle deCapriana. To see the potential for good in a man like that after what you have been through, your _experiences_ I mean. A kind woman indeed!"

She skirted off, her elaborate costume trailing behind her. I frowned, my brow furrowed with thought. No one had ever complemented me on my character before. My looks, yes. My manners, maybe. But never my character. Perhaps my life at the bordello had not destroyed me after all. I still had my soul, my spirit, _I still have 'me'_. And with that, a faint glimmer of hope rose through my chest that I could revive the woman I once was. That I could have a normal life, a house to call my own, a garden blossoming with hundreds of flowers, a husband… Maybe I was not as scarred as I made myself believe. Yes, there was potential in me, and I was determined to coax it out.


	7. An Unpleasant Rendezvous

Feeling rather joyous that night after my discussion and revelation with Charlotte, I decided to explore more of the immense Opera House. I still had over an hour before I was to begin dressing the cast for tonight's performance, and sitting in my room waiting for the hour to arrive seemed a rather tedious task. I set out on my exploration, determined to become more familiar with my new home. I admired the grandiose staircase in the main entrance, and the hauntingly beautiful, golden statues that loomed over the theater walls. Delving myself backstage, I began to realize just how large this place was. Hallways and passageways entwined together, _so, so many of them!_ I marveled at the intricacies upon which this theater was erected. How difficult it must have been to plan and construct such a building! After milling around a few more areas, I decided that I was to be needed soon in costuming. I took one last glance at the room I was currently in, it seemed a storage room for costumes of the older productions, and exited, carefully shutting the door behind me. I whirled around to find a man staring at me. I let out a cry of surprise.

"You seem to be lost, Mademoiselle," he said, glancing around nervously.

I recognized him as one of the stage hands, though we had never been properly introduced.

"No, I was just returning to the stage. It must be near performance time." I breathed, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins from the shock of finding out I was not alone in this seemingly deserted hallway.

"Ah, yes it is. And you would be essential to the preparations, how?"

"Forgive me, Monsieur! I am Alessandra deCapriana, part of the costuming department," I explained, offering him my hand. He did not reply with his title, but rather seized my hand, placing his crude lips upon my skin. He glanced around once more, casting a sinister look over my features. Feeling uncomfortable, I forced a polite smile and attempted to move past him. His hand grabbed my arm, shoving me forcefully into a wall.

"Why leaving so soon, Mademoiselle? Certainly you have a few minutes to spare…" he growled into my face, I grimaced, whiskey was thick on his breath. His large arms pinned me helplessly under his weight. I began to scream, but a large hand covered my mouth silencing me, while the other pulled out a large knife. I gasped, _surely he did not mean to… _Running the cold steel against the tender column of my neck, I whimpered, "I promise, this will only take a minute," he spat. He pressed his forehead onto mine, his breathing becoming ragged. I felt him began to rip my blouse open, felt his hand run under my skirt. I closed my eyes, shutting myself out from the world. I knew what he planned to do, and slowly began to accept it. It did not surprise me that I did not fight back immediately, I had, after all, been in this situation many times. When I had felt uncomfortable with a client's _preference_, I simply cleared my mind. All thought, all emotion vanished.

Trance-like, I stared at the rafters above me, waiting for the deed to be done. My focus was not broken, but I slowly became more aware of the rafters, now swinging with urgency. A figure caught my eye, but before I could identify it as anything, it was gone, leaving the gentle swish of the ropes swaying through the air. Suddenly, there was an immense pressure being thrust upon my frame. Entering back into the realm of reality, I looked back down toward the man. His heavy body now slumped upon mine, his eyes vacant and lifeless, a rope bound around his neck. It took me a couple of moments to realize at last, this man was dead! Disgusted I shoved him off of me, his body falling to the ground with a sickening thud. I stood, clinging to the wall, unable to move, unable to speak. _What had happened?_

"Mademoiselle, are you hurt?" These words shattered through the eerie silence. My eyes slowly turned to the figure in front of me.

My mouth contorted into what must have been a horrible shape, the breath knocked out of me. I felt nauseous, faint. I wanted to collapse, to forget this night ever happened. The figure, the _thing_ standing in front of me was wearing a mask. _A mask!_ My mind reeled, all sense instructed me to run, to get as far away from Him as possible. But something made me stay, made my feet stick to the ground. Was it fear? Was it shock? _Was it curiosity?_

Here I was, in this vacant hallway, with none other than The Phantom of the Opera.


	8. Of Him

He was different than the image my imagination had scalded into my mind. I had always thought of Him as a monster, in every sense of the word. Expecting Him to be grotesque, greatly deformed, utterly appalling, _what other perception could I have of Him after the horrifying stories I had heard from everyone here at L'Opera Populaire? _I was, however, pleasantly surprised.

The man in front of me did not make my skin crawl, did not make me scream out in terror. He was a man, just like any other you would pass on the streets of Paris. The only thing making Him stand out was the harsh white mask covering the right side of his face. _His face!_ How remarkably handsome, how beautiful, it was! Strong, angular features, complimenting a devilishly cleft chin. His cheek bones, high and dominant. His eyes, _his eyes!_ Such a green I had never seen before! I pulled from my mind the memory of the hue of the hills that encompassed the villa I once called home, even they paled in comparison to the sheer audacity of those exquisite eyes. They seemed so passionate, so wildly untamed, yet harbored a sense of mourning, a deeper sorrow then I felt I could, or would ever understand. They burned right through me, filling my soul with so many nameless emotions. I shied away from His stare, fearing what would happen if I continued to gawk at His face. I turned my attention to the rest of Him, absorbing His every feature. He was tall and stood with such a refined, dignified posture. His lean frame commending His apparent musculature. Dressed in shades of crimson and black, He appeared ever the dark, brooding gentleman He was.

"Mademoiselle, did he harm you?"

Realizing that I had been standing there dumbfounded for countless minutes, I made a weak attempt to answer Him.

"No…no, I don't think so," I managed to whisper. He strode closer, and for a moment a sense of panic rushed over me. Remembering all at once the horror stories I had been told of Him, I cowered shrinking back against the wall. I was greatly relieved when He gently took my hand and led me away from the lifeless body that lie before us. We walked in silence. I continued to stare at this phantom, completely entranced by the elegant movement of his legs, the gentle billowing of his cape as we navigated our way though the halls. Abruptly He stopped, and I nearly ran into Him. He released my hand and proceeded to help me adjust my dress, making it as presentable as possible. He smoothed out my skirts with a leather-clad hand and reached up to tame my waves, completely askew from the incident. He paused, His hand hovering mere inches from my face. I closed my eyes in anticipation of His touch. _What would it feel like?_ I found myself wondering. I heard a rough sigh, and my eyes fluttered back open. He was now turned away from me, head bowed, slinking down His shoulders.

"Thank you," I could barely hear the words as they escaped my throat. "Thank you, Monsieur. You saved my life."

He turned His head to meet my gaze. "Perhaps you should be more cautious next time and not wander the corridors of my Opera House unattended," He snarled. "I cannot be bothered every time you are in need of a savior, Mademoiselle deCapriana."

Before I could offer my apologies, voices bounced around the walls. Obviously startled, His head snapped back up, looking over my shoulder. Keeping His ever calm and cool façade, He raised a finger to His lips, silencing my attempts to form coherent sentences. I glanced behind me, indeed someone was coming.

"Mons.." I began, but He had already vanished.

"Alessandra! Where have you been? La Carlotta is screaming for you! Do hurry, we have only a few moments before the curtain rises," Charlotte's familiar face appeared at the end of the hall, hurriedly motioning me to follow her. I obeyed and burst into a sprint, following her back to the dressing rooms.

After the sheer chaos that erupted backstage and my frenzied hands rushing to apply everyone's makeup, my cozy room was a comforting sight. I closed the door and leaned my back against it. Pushing a damp lock of chestnut from my face, I exhaled heavily. Mere hours before, I was in this very same room, nearly bored to tears. Nothing more exciting happening then deciding between what skirt I was to wear tonight. _That was before Him. _

My attention turned to the mirror. Transfixed, yet admittedly frightened with my own curiosity, I approached it once more. My encounter tonight had definitely left me with some questions. I cringed, thinking of what would come of the discovery of the stage hand's corpse. _Was I to be blamed?_ Yet, shockingly, that detail seemed rather miniscule in comparison to my other encounter. Tonight, I had actually come upon the Phantom of the Opera. He rescued me, saving me from a horrific experience.

Nothing was what I expected. I never expected to be drawn to a phantom, to a murderer. _How could I believe Him evil?_ Evil did not have such enchanting eyes, evil did not speak with such a melodic tone. Evil did not possess a face that flawless. _Well, half a face. _

My figure was so close to the mirrored surface, nearly touching it. The very tip of my nose grazing the cool glass. I strained my eyes, trying, with no avail, to look through the mirror. Hoping, praying for a glimpse, _just a glimpse! _of Him. I longed to know more of this phantom. To feel that sensation of falling, falling endlessly when He peered at me through those spectacular eyes. I shuddered. My mind was instructing me, screaming at me to stay away from Him. _What do you want from a monster? _It taunted. _What could a monster want from you? _I moved away from the mirror, sinking down onto my bed. My heart, with every beat, seemed to echo His voice through my body. I closed my eyes, trying to get it to stop. But I saw Him through the darkness of my eyelids. I saw His figure. I saw His hands. I saw His mask. What hideous deformities lie under the smooth porcelain surface? What hideous deformity lie within that broken, frigid heart?


	9. Revelations and Accusations

**_A/N: Thanks so much for all the awesome reviews! I am so glad you guys are liking this story! I know it may be a little slow now, but I am a firm believer in character development...so bare with me!_**

**_Please R&R!_**

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Eventually, albeit very slowly, I began to slip into the unconsciousness of sleep. Much to my surprise, it was a dreamless slumber, a pleasant relief from the excitement of the day.

It would not last long.

I awoke, somewhat startled, later that night. My forehead was damp in a cold, sticky sweat. I felt tense and greatly solicitous. _What had happened? Why did I awake? _I strained my vision, scanning through the darkness of my room. There were no dreams, no nightmares that could have awoken me, not any that I recalled offhand, anyway. There had, however, been a voice. _Yes! A voice!_ I could remember all at once drifting off to sleep while some concealed melody had surrounded my mind and my body, filling me with comfort and tranquility.

Uneasy, I tried to shrug off the explanation that was rapidly forming in my mind. Indeed it was a strangely familiar voice, but there was no possibility that it was whom I believed it to be. Attempting to divert my attention to something that was less frightening, I laid my head back down upon the pillow, my palm pressed to my flushed cheeks. I slowly took in breath, letting it fill my constricted chest, letting it ingress my thoughts, clearing them away. It was of no use. My mind snapped back to a scene that had occurred earlier that evening:

_Perhaps you should be more cautious next time and not wander the corridors of my Opera House unattended. I cannot be bothered every time you are in need of a savior, Mademoiselle deCapriana._

The harsh words seem to reverberate off the walls of my tiny bedroom. Back and forth they bounced, congesting my head with suspicion. _He knew my name! How did He know?_

The being that had saved me earlier was no apparition. It was surely a living, breathing, existing thing. It was not a ghost nor some fantasy my mind had conjured up. He was real. He is real. I concluded that the stories about Him had to be real, also. I knew all too well the effects of gossip and how the actual events were often warped into an obscure story, varying from the truth greatly. Was this the case of the Phantom? I mentally began filing through all the information I had learned about Him.

The chandelier did indeed plummet to the crowd in the Opera House that fateful evening, leading to the disappearance of the supposed object of His affection, Christine Daae. Christine Daae. That name seemed oddly familiar. He took her to His home, deep in the subterranean vaults of the Opera House. Her betrothed, Monsieur deChagny, had followed them there, emerging hours later with his beloved. The Opera Ghost never seen nor heard from again. Or so Audric had led me to believe. I had been sitting in the parlor that evening, listening with fervor to the bizarre tale my master had been discussing with his brother. It fascinated me. So intriguing and Romanesque was this story, it was emblazoned in my mind. When Audric had spoken of Him, He was depicted in a rather unappealing light. In fact, Audric absolutely despised this "creature". Being good family friends with the deChagny's, this ghost was dismissed as a sanguineous lunatic that was to be disposed of if ever heard from again.

I managed to find it incredibly romantic, somehow. Of course, I never dared voice my opinion to anyone in the household. So I mused to myself how wonderful it would be to be cherished, adored, by someone that much. The ghost never seemed to be sinister, in my eyes, just misunderstood.

Misunderstood. _Was this man really anything to fear?_ My thoughts ran in circles all night, until I finally managed to fall asleep again. Not knowing that just feet from my sleeping figure there stood a man, watching my chest rise and fall with every breath I took.

The next day, I awoke to pandemonium. Charlotte came bursting into my room at the very early hour's of the morning.

"Alessandra! Wake up!" she shouted, gently shaking my fatigued shoulders. I was weary from my lack of rest, but managed to open my eyes and cast an irritated look in her direction. I immediately noticed the terrified look on her usually bright face. I sat up as quick as my groggy body would allow me to.

"Charlotte, you look a fright! Whatever is the matter?"

"They…they found a _body_ this morning. Near the prop room. It was Pierre, the stagehand. Oh Alessandra, it appears that He has returned!" she cried, throwing her arms up in the air.

"Who has returned? What do you mean, Charlotte? You're frightening me."

"Him! _The Phantom of the Opera!_ Who else could have done such a terrible thing?" she whispered His name, apparently afraid that He would overhear it.

My mind began to run at a frantic pace. This man, this phantom had saved my life last night. I could not just stand there, helpless, letting Him be blamed for cold-blooded murder. Yet I could not exactly tell the truth either. _Who would believe that the Opera Ghost had come to my rescue?_ He had killed that stage hand to save me, and for that, I would always be grateful to Him. I needed an excuse, I needed an explanation.

"Is there any proof that it was Him who, in fact, killed the man?" I said, trying to sound as calm and nonchalant as possible, though inside I was racked with worry. "Perhaps, this was of the man's own doing," I suggested, turning my face away from Charlotte. I was an excellent liar, but I took no chances, I didn't want her to detect any trace of emotion in my eyes.

"I know that you may have a soft spot for _Him_, Alessandra. But do you honestly think that Pierre would take his own life?"

"Did you know him personally?" I questioned, "Who's to say that he didn't?"

Charlotte moved toward the door, her blonde hair falling softly around her innocent face. Clearly, her youth had not subjected her to the horrors of murder or suicide. Her eyes were far away from here, searching for an answer not I, nor anyone, could give her.

"Why…how could one do such a thing?"

"Charlotte, it's very sad that this has happened, but that does not mean you can go running about blaming someone's misery on the Phantom of the Opera," I said it as softly as possible, not wanting to hurt her. She nodded and turned around to look over my room, her gaze lingering on the mirror. I locked my eyes onto her own, reassuring her. I sighed and took her into a friendly embrace, patting her delicate hand.

"Everything is going to be all right, Charlotte," I smiled, "Now, don't you have an opera to rehearse?"

A small grin spread across her face and she nodded, leaving me to my room, and to my thoughts.


	10. Confession

**(A/N: Finally, we are gonna get into some action in this chapter! Enjoy!)**

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Over the next few days there was much discussion about the untimely death of Pierre, the stagehand. Naturally, after finding the body, L'Opera Populaire's managers informed the authorities, and an investigation had commenced. They had questioned the entire staff at the Opera, including Charlotte and myself. I managed to conjure up a convincing alibi and Charlotte seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she had found me only a few hallways down from where the body lay that night. Most of the staff hadn't been familiar with Pierre, but the few that were tried to convince the police that he couldn't have possibly taken his own life. When asking for what particular person they suspected of killing Pierre, most silenced their efforts. Some muttered allusions to a 'ghost', luckily the authorities merely laughed at this suggestion. Due to lack of evidence, Pierre's death was ultimately found to be of suicide.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking this entire ordeal was to be put behind me. After the investigation settled, I imagined that life would return to normal at the Opera House.

Sitting at the vanity in my room, I critiqued my appearance. I managed to pull my thick hair into a taught bun at the base of my head. I dipped my brush into the powdered rouge that lay in a small metal container on the table, swirling it about. I brought it up to my face. I hesitated, and finally set the brush back down. I was now more determined than ever to hide my beauty. I laughed aloud through my silent thoughts, _Wouldn't it just be easier to wear a mask, Alessandra?_ My wide, toothy smile suddenly turned to a frown. That was wrong of me to think. I knew of His deformity, the horrible monstrosity that was lurking under the austere mask. He had been suffering His whole life because of what lie under that mask. Taunted, ridiculed, hated, despised because of his appearance. _How can people be so cruel? _This man had saved my life, not even knowing me, not asking for anything in return. He had saved me, putting Himself at risk for a complete stranger. He truly was a compassionate man, deserving of everything wonderful life had to offer. But he would never know what 'life' truly meant. Never really feel 'alive'.

All this because of his image. _What a horrible thing beauty is! Completely overrated! _Here I was, generally attractive in every aspect, wasting my life away. Destroyed, dejected, violated because of my attractiveness. I didn't know what 'life' meant, and I realized that I had never truly felt 'alive' either.

I glanced at the clock ticking away on my dresser. Nine o'clock. I was needed in the dressing rooms. I left my room and started my journey to the stage, turning my thoughts to tonight's performance.

"Alessandra!" Charlotte's face beamed at me upon entering the room.

I smiled at her, motioning for her to be seated so I could begin applying powder.

"We have not spoken for days, how have you been?" I asked, hoping to be bombarded with some flighty story that would distract me from my own mind.

"Very well considering everything. You know, I was rather worried about you."

"Mm, why ever were you fretting over me?"

"After Pierre's death, you seemed withdrawn. Frightened. Even now you are not yourself, is something wrong, Alessandra?" Her wide blue eyes turned around to meet mine.

I shied away, turning around to grab some hair pins. Composing my face, I turned back to her once more, a much too eager smile forged upon my lips.

"Wrong? No, of course not! I'm fine, everything's fine!" Even her naïvety could see right through my fabricated words.

"Alessandra, it's all right. I like to think we are friends now, you can tell me what really happened that night."

I stopped fidgeting with the pins in my hand, but continued to stare at my feet. _She knew!_ I did not understand how she suspected that something went disastrously wrong that night, but she knew. Tears stung at my eyes, threatening to rush over the brims of my lower lashes. I was taken aback by my reaction, I was not one to display emotion so easily.

"Oh, Alessandra! It's all right!" Throwing her arms around my shaking figure, my tears finally streaming down my face, I cried. I cried for the first time in my adult life. All those years of agony and anguish finally rose to the surface.

I cried for my family, I cried for myself. I cried at the injustice that life was.

We stood there, in the middle of her dressing room, for moments that passed slowly. I struggled to compose myself, drawing in shaky breaths. Finally, she released me, wiping my tears away with her sleeve. I looked up at her, and finally decided to confide in someone. What I had gone through was too much to put upon myself, I could carry the secrets no longer.

I told her about my life as a courtesan. She stood there, mouth agape, as I told her of the horrors that I had been succumbed to. I told her of my escape from that life. I told her of the stagehand's advances on me that night, how he had intended to rape me. I stopped there. Unsure of my next move.

_Could I tell her of the Phantom?_ I decided against it, I knew of her opinion of Him and I did not want her to form more erroneous thoughts of Him. Instead, I mentioned that I had blacked out and had awoken next to Pierre's dead body.

"You poor thing! Oh, Alessandra!" she lamented, her own eyes growing teary.

"Please. Please, tell no one of this," I begged. "I have never told anyone of this before."

"Of course. Your secret is safe with me."

I nodded, turning my focus back upon her appearance. I finished preparing her mechanically, my mind vacant, my body drained from the emotional release I had just experienced. She had to have noticed my perfunctory movements, but said nothing of it. After I had finished, I wished her good luck and sent her off to the stage.

My body was spent. I dragged myself back to my room, locking the door, and throwing myself upon my bed. I clutched the blankets between my fingers, feeling a strange thing washing over my core. My knuckles began to turn white from the force in which my hands grasped at the sheets. My heart rate increased, I could literally feel it stab against my ribs with every beat. A knot formed at the pit of my stomach, for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. I could feel the blood weaving it's way throughout my veins, pulsing in my temples. Every sense I possessed seemed irrelevant. I could see nothing, hear nothing. Feel nothing. I tilt my head back and let out a thunderous cry. I screamed until my lungs burned, clamoring for oxygen. Still I screamed. I tore myself from my bed, ripping the sheets off of me. I rushed to my vanity, scorching drops of tears scalding my smooth cheeks. I ceased my cries when I saw my reflection.

I look crazed. My hair disheveled, my eyes red and swollen. Panting, like some sort of an animal. Still, I saw myself in those foreign expressions on my face. I saw a young girl, wanting nothing more out of life than to live a happy one. Wanting, in vain. Wishing, in vain. Hoping, in vain. All the repressed pain, all the subdued memories, flooded my brain. Blinding my thoughts with rage. _I hated myself. I hated my face. _I picked up my perfume bottle that rested on my nightstand and flung it at the vanity, shattering the small mirror into thousands of tiny shards. It was not enough.

I darted over to the floor length mirror, the mirror whose intricacies I once admired. My hands formed into crude fists. Glaring at myself, staring myself down. _I felt I was going mad!_ Still, she stared at me, yet I did not know who this person was! I struck the mirror's surface. Clawing and kicking at the glass as it burst out of its frame. Fragments flew at me, piercing the soft flesh of my hands and arms. I did not care. I could feel no pain.

When there was no glass left to break, no reflection left to destroy, I sunk to the floor. My small frame shaking with adrenaline. I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. I cried, blurring my vision with stinging, salty tears. I lifted my head in a feeble attempt to fill my lungs with precious air. I stifled a scream at the sight that laid before me. It was not an angry sound, but rather a frightened one. I scrambled to my feet, backing away from the mirror frame. I stopped when my back hit the wall, my palms pressed flat on the sides of me. My mouth hung open, wanting to make any sort of noise, but none came.

Where the glass stood only moments before was replaced by a dark hallway. Nothing else visible except for a luminous mask.


	11. The Darkness

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the wonderful reviews! They really make slaving over the computer worthwhile! Anywho, I want to know what you guys are not liking so far about this story. Is it moving _too _slow? Want to see more (or less) of some characters? Let me know!**

**And now, without further ado...the next chapter!**

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For a moment, I felt my eyes roll into the back of my head and I prepared myself for the fall to the floor. Miraculously, I managed to regain my composure and I only slightly wavered on my unstable legs. I dared not open my eyes. I kept them squeezed shut, as tight as my eyelids would allow. Was it out of fear? Disbelief? _Maybe it was out of hope._

Realizing that I probably looked like an imbecile standing there with my eyes so forcefully closed, I slowly pried them open with my will. The mask was no longer there. It was now replaced with a full figure striding out through the darkness. At first I didn't believe it was Him. This man, this thing appeared to be nothing more than a shadow. An apparition rising from the blackness of the hallway. _He was the darkness._

I stood there silently, at the other end of the room, waiting. I dared not to make a sound, dared not to breathe for fear it would scare Him away. He was slowly advancing on my shaking frame. _Slowly, ever so slowly!_ I wondered if my imagination was playing tricks on me, or if during those moments, time actually slowed its relentless pace.

He bent down, a large, voluminous cape shrouding his body. Picking up the broken pieces of glass, He examined them with great care. His head slowly turned upward, the mask catching the soft glow of candlelight in the room. His eyes, so piercing and powerful, turned to my hands. Embarrassed, I quickly concealed them behind my back. The remains of the mirror, still lodged in my skin, caught on my skirts and I let out a small whimper of pain. I had been completely ignorant, until now, of the intense throbbing of my hands. I couldn't bring myself to look at them, knowing that I had a low tolerance for those sort of things, and I desperately did not want to display any of my weaknesses to him. I snapped my head back to survey His reaction. He seemed to have none. Those eyes continued to examine me, scrutinizing my every feature. Finally, he spoke.

"Let me have a look at those," He said, gesturing toward my hands.

Timidly, I inched forward. He softly pulled them from behind me and cradled them in His. Large, muscular hands, surrounded in cool, black leather. He removed his gloves, not wanting to dirty them, and gently laid them beside my feet on the floor. I had to turn my head away at the sight of my mangled flesh, _What had I done to myself?_

I winced as He continued to inspect them, carefully picking out the larger chunks of glass and tossing them onto the floor. I did my best to disguise my discomfort, occasionally letting small squeaks of pain escape my throat. He sighed. _Such a beautiful sound!_

A realization suddenly dawned on me. _He had been there when the mirror shattered. Surely he must have seen…_

"Did you…how long were you standing there, watching me?" I questioned rather sheepishly.

His hands ceased their movement, but He did not avert His gaze from them.

"Long enough. And, yes, I did bear witness to that bout of rage earlier." His answer was simple, no emotion or feeling traceable in His voice.

Truthfully, I had already known the answer before I had asked the question. _Of course He was there! He has probably been viewing you from that mirror for quite some time!_

I scoffed aloud at my thoughts. Apparently, this somewhat surprised Him, as now His face raised to meet mine. Our eyes locked. I tried to look away, _but those eyes! _They would not let me go. Desperate to break this contact, I frantically tried to change the subject.

"That night, when you saved me…you called me Mademoiselle deCapriana. You knew my name. How did you know? Granted, we had never met prior to that encounter, but I still find it rather…" He silenced my drivel with a wave of His hand.

"I know of everyone that works here, at my Opera House."

I became rather curious of this man kneeling before me. _His Opera House?_ My inquisitiveness taking over my common sense, I suddenly felt quite bold.

"Your Opera House? Monsieur, forgive me, but do not the managers own L'Opera Populaire?"

"Those fools know nothing about theater!" His voice boomed, eyes flaring specks of emerald fire, placing some fear back into my mind. My curiosity was satisfied for the time being. I decided to turn the conversation to a lighter nature.

"Oh, I see."

Silence.

"So, Monsieur…I'm sorry, I do not know what to address you as. Surely you do not wish to be called Monsieur le Fantôme. Or do you? I'm... " I was halted again. For a moment, just a brief moment, I thought I saw an inkling of amusement wash over His face. _Was that the beginning of a smile?_

"You may call me Erik."

_Erik._ My mouth formed the word silently. He was no longer some nameless figment of my thoughts, He was real. Standing in front of me, talking to me. Touching me. And, at last, I knew of His name. _Erik._

"Erik, I am Alessandra," realization dawned on me, "Of course, how silly of me! You already knew that."

This conversation was not going as well as I had hoped. Over these last few weeks, I had mentally been preparing myself of what to say to Him. Wanting so badly to impress Him, wanting Him to notice me. Now, as the moment had arrived, I turned into a blabbering idiot. Nervously spouting the first words to enter my mind. He probably thought of me as some silly little girl, learning to play dress-up in _His _Opera House. This was not the first impression I wanted Him to form. I decided it would be best to let Him finish cleaning my wounds in silence, he seemed to prefer the solitude.

"These hands need medical attention, Mademoiselle. I'm afraid they could become infected if not properly tended to."

He released His hold, and strode over to the bed, picking up the tangled sheets I had inflicted my rage upon earlier. He tore a piece of fabric from it and gently began wrapping my hands. Blood soaked through the crisp, white cotton. He did not release my hands this time. He held them, so tenderly stroking my wrists with His thumbs. His gaze suddenly turning soft and wistful. I wanted so badly to say something, _anything_ to seize the moment of intimacy I thought we were experiencing. _I should thank Him for helping me. No, I should try to explain my rash actions of earlier._ My thoughts were interrupted.

"Mademoiselle Alessandra, is everything well?" There was a knock at the door.

He quickly stood, releasing my hands from his own, obviously startled from the visitor. He returned to the mirror's threshold, His face sliding into that emotionless façade once again. I had been sure, absolutely sure that in those moments He had been caring for my wounds, I saw compassion sweep over His features. Any trace of that was gone now.

"Tell no one of what you saw." He growled, and with an elegant swish of His cape, he returned to the darkness. Becoming one with it again.

"Alessandra! What is the matter?" The voice was frantic now. I rushed over to the door and flung it open. Madame Giry's stern face greeted me.

"Oh, my," she gasped, surveying the room's damage, "what happened?"

Excuses, explanations, answers raced in and out of my brain, searching desperately for one that was passable.

"I, oh, I had an accident," I mumbled incoherently. I looked up at her, fearful of her reaction.

She only stared at the mirror frame, offering no argument to my impromptu answer. Walking around the room, surveying the damage, she stopped suddenly. Her eyes, wrinkled and withered from age, glazing over at the dark portal that now stood in the middle of the room.

"Yes, a rather unfortunate _accident_," She shifted her eyes from under her spectacles to glare at me. "That mirror needs to be replaced immediately. I shall do it myself, you are to tell no one of what you saw. Alessandra, is that clear?"

I nodded, my head bent in shame. _What she must think of me!_

"Oh dear," she was now peering down at my hands, or lack thereof, wrapped in bloody sheets, "I will call the nurse for you."

I thanked her and carefully sat down at my bed. Attempting to neaten the messy blankets strewn about was no easy task.

"This room is not suitable to sleep in tonight. Come, we will find you another place to rest. Your room will be ready in the morning."

I almost protested. I wanted to stay in this room, I didn't want to leave. _I didn't want to leave Him. _I thought it best not to argue with Madame Giry, however. Determination was set on her face. She led me out of the room, but not before I stole one last glance at the leather gloves that still lay on the floor.


	12. Our Connection

I was led through several hallways, glancing over my shoulder from time to time. I couldn't convince myself that He would just magically appear, yet I couldn't disregard it either. My mind had seemed to be playing tricks on me. Every time we passed some figure, shrouded in the darkness of the Opera House, my heart would catch in my throat. For a brief moment, excitement would boil through my blood at the thought that Erik would resurface. Eventually, my hopes simmered.

We continued on our way through the various quarters where the staff took residence.

"This is where you will be staying tonight," Madame Giry announced, unlocking a door with a small, bronze key. As she pushed it open, clouds of dust enshrouded us, causing my lungs to ache from the debris. Madame Giry seemed not to notice and continued inside the room. I was hesitant at first, for it seemed a rather crude place to spend one's evening, but a swift tug on my arm convinced me to inspect my new surroundings further.

It was large, much larger than my room. I noted that an important member of the cast must have stayed here, for the grander rooms were reserved for the lead sopranos and the prima ballerinas. Though the furnishings were aged from un-use, they still managed to retain most of their charm. A quaint little vanity sat in the far corner of the room, with a dresser alongside it. The bed seemed inviting enough, and to my surprise, was adorned with satin pillows and an indulgent velvet coverlet. _Perhaps this was not so bad._

"I will return shortly. I need to fetch some things for your stay here." She left the door open and I began to explore this room.

I found a small rag of cotton, and began to tidy up the furniture. My hands were barely able to grasp it, and it fell to the floor behind the vanity. I bent down to pick it up, my hand scanning the cramped space behind the furniture. I felt something. Wrapping my fingers around it, I pulled it out from its hiding place. _A flower?_ A very old, very withered rose lie innocently on my palm, a smooth, black ribbon tied around the stem. I stared at it with curiosity. It had once been beautiful, vivid and bright with life. Now, it was ruined. Neglected and forgotten, gathering up inches of dust as it lay on the cold wooden planks of the ground. This wasn't just an ordinary rose, however. Something about it made my heart beat a little faster, made color return to my pale cheeks. I imagined the person who received it was loved very much, for it was a beautiful rose. _Funny, that something that simple could emit all those feelings…_

I set it carefully into one of the dresser drawers, my fingertips brushing over the crinkled petals. My focus shifted to the rest of the room.

Something suddenly struck me as odd. In the middle of the wall hung a bulky sheet, covering what seemed to be a painting of some sort. Walking up to it, I traced my arm along the smooth outline of the fabric. My clothed hand trying to pull back the sheet. Madame Giry re-entered and her sudden presence made me jump.

"I apologize for the state in which this room is in. It has not been used since…" her voice trailed off, "It has not been occupied for some time. However, I can not ask you to sleep with the Corps de Ballet for it would be much too crowded and all the other living quarters are full, so this will have to do for the time being."

She placed a pitcher of fresh water and a few of my belongings on the dresser.

"Thank you, Madame." I curtsied. My head still bowed, ever so cautiously I added, "And what is behind that sheet?"

Her lips puckered, as if suddenly inflicted with pain. "You are not, under any circumstances, to remove that cloth." Her voice turning harsh and strained.

"Yes, Madame." I obeyed, slightly disappointed. _What is she trying to hide?_

I knew that eventually my curiosity would give in, for I was a very curious woman. It was simply a matter of time.

She looked around the room once more, as if scanning for an undetected presence. Clicking her tongue, she bid me good-night, and left me, closing the door behind her.

Sitting down on my plush, new bed, I finally took notice of my hands. Madame Giry must have forgotten to send for the nurse. They were aching, so sharply! I took heed of Erik's warning and convinced myself that I would have to clean them, not wanting an infection. I found a wash basin near the dresser, and poured some water from the pitcher into it. Carefully unwrapping my makeshift bandages, I gingerly dipped my marred skin into the cool liquid. It stung a little at first, but as I continued to run them in and out of the water, relief finally settled over my weary body. Gathering the courage I needed to thoroughly survey the damage, I examined my hands. There were deep cuts along the knuckles and my fingers still had bits of glass lodged in them. I wondered if I would ever be rid of that mirror, it's presence forever marked upon my flesh.

Panic struck me. _How was I to work in this condition?_ It was impossible to carefully line eyes with kohl with sheets wrapped around your hands! It seemed inevitable that my stay at L'Opera Populaire was limited. I needed to devise a plan to remain employed here. There was no where else to work, no one that would hire me. _No one that would care for me._ I pushed the ominous thoughts off. In the morning I would ask the manager's to give me a few days' recovery, then I could continue my profession here. For, they had not another aesthetician to fall back on, _maybe I am needed here after all._ I smiled at my solution, finally feeling security wrap it's comforting arms around me.

I changed into my nightgown, though it was very difficult to do so with mounds of sheets for hands. I was drawing back my bed when I first heard it. A soft hum, lulling my anxiety away, carrying me off into a state of pure bliss. Where worry and fear was replaced with delight and pleasure. Gradually it grew louder, until the hum became a voice, enrapturing my senses. This was not the first time I had heard this voice. A few weeks ago, I had been awoken to these sounds. It had frightened me then, now it intrigued me. Called to me. _Where was it coming from?_ I paced around the room, searching frantically for the origin of that sensual melody. It seemed to be coming from all directions. First it was hiding under my bed, then dancing about the vanity.

All at once, I had a suspicion about that sheet. Looming over the dull wall, _a painting, surely it was a painting! _I rushed over to it, completely disregarding Madame Giry's warning, and tore the sheet from the wall. It pooled into a whisper at my feet. The voice had stopped singing, _the music was gone!_

Silence. It was deafening.

_A mirror! _Another cursed' mirror stood before me. I debated slamming what was left of my hands into it and putting myself out of my misery, but then I remembered. _He_ came from the mirror. _Was He there now?_ I had absolutely no idea why I was so fascinated with this man. I barely even knew Him! Yet, in those few, precious minutes we had spent together, I had seen all that I needed to see. Heard all I needed to hear.

I can honestly not give you a fair explanation of why I was intrigued with the Phantom. Call it empathy, call it fascination, call it whatever you like! Somewhere deep in the sub- consciousness of my mind, I felt connected to him. We were actually very similar. His life, a complete Hell because of His face. Mine, a living, breathing nightmare because of mine. Tortured, abused, broken by something we could not control. We could do our best to disguise it, _Heaven knows we have both tried!_ But, it would always be there, lurking under our false appearances. Casting a permanent shadow over our worlds.

Tears had begun to fall once again. This time, I did not try to stop them. Nor did I stifle my sobs, barely audible now. The anger was gone, and all that was left to feel was nothing. Emptiness. Loneliness.

I positioned myself in front of the mirror. Sitting cross-legged, as a child would, before it. My tear stained face leaning against the cool glass, my hand stroked the reflection. Trying to comfort it, desperately seeking solace. I wanted to cry out to Him, to share my pain with Him. _To share His pain with me. _Not by choice, but by some cruel twist of fate, this was our connection. Pain was our connection.

I sat there for countless minutes, _hours, maybe? _Waiting for Him to come. When I could no longer find the strength to keep my body upright, I laid down next to it. I couldn't tear myself away from the mirror. Even if Erik was not watching me, was not standing on the other side, I still felt His presence. It was everywhere in this room. Sleep came, and my fatigued body accepted it gladly.

The first thing I noticed the next morning was the intense pulsing of my hands. They ached more viciously then they had the night before. I glanced down at them and noticed that a yellow pus now seeped through the linen. It was quite a sight, dried bits of blood and glass mixed with the vile, oozy liquid. My stomach churned with disgust. Clearly, I was not the best of nurses. I winced at the thought of actually removing the bandages, _I would save that delight for someone else!_

The second thing I noticed was that I was no longer on the floor. I rested comfortably on the bed, wrapped in indulgent velvet blankets. My amber waves splashed over blue satin pillows. I was positive, completely sure that I had fallen asleep in front of the mirror last night. My brow furrowed in thought. My memory was rather hazy, blurred with images of tears and relentless emotions. Slowly, a picture began to form…

I was nearly consumed with slumber when I heard the voice again. I did not have an immediate reaction to it, for I was still very drowsy. Sprawled out on the floor, I called to it:

"_Erik…"_

_There was no answer at first. Still, I beckoned the voice, "Erik…"_

_Suddenly, my body was no longer in contact with the harsh wooden floor. It was entangled in two strong arms. I relaxed into His hold, my head nestled into the warm fabric of His shirt. I inhaled, the bold smell of candle smoke filling my nose. Heat was emanating from Him, warming me, bringing me back to life. I began to stir. Before I could speak, the music began again. Such a sweet melody! Entering me, sending me back into a world of rest and comfort. I realized now that the music was coming from Him. He sang, in a foreign tongue I did not understand in literal terms. But physically, I felt it. The voice, filled with such longing, such grief, but still undeniably beautiful in it's sorrow. It took over my body, possessing me, forcing me into sleep. I tried to fight it, struggled to resist it, but it was all-consuming. _

_Eventually, the voice won. I was placed upon the bed, my frame neatly tucked into the piles of covers. It was becoming softer now, so quiet and fragile…_

That was the last thing I could remember. He had come to me last night. Rescuing me once again from myself.


	13. The Secret of the Mirror

It was very difficult to convince myself not to immediately scamper off and search for Erik. I had no idea even where to begin. I knew, from all the stories floating around, that He lived somewhere under the Opera House. Hundreds of feet below civilization, below life. I also learned that no one, with the exception of Mademoiselle Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny, had ever returned alive from the depths of the Phantom's lair. Still, I needed to see Him again. Needed to speak to Him again, _needed to hear His voice again. _I closed my eyes trying to focus my thoughts on that voice, so intoxicating, so alluring! So deceptive.

My eyes snapped open._ I must be losing my mind! _Here I was, sitting in some foreign dressing room, pining away for the Phantom of the Opera! _He doesn't even know who you are! _My mind screamed at me, planting seeds of doubt and reservation in my head. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't ignore the truth. When He came to me last night, helping mend my injured hands, I thought I had seen a spark of…_something. _Some wild, unnamed emotion, reflecting in his eyes. Those beautiful, deceptive eyes.

"Mademoiselle deCapriana? Are you decent for a visitor?"

"Just one moment please," I sweetly answered, knowing full well that the voice behind the door belonged to Madame Giry.

I found my housecoat lying on the dresser and adorned myself in the perky lilac fabric, _what a perfect tone to compliment my mood!_ My face formed into a sarcastic smirk and I glanced in the mirror of the vanity. I didn't even give a second thought to the sheet lying on the floor. The sheet that once concealed the mirror. Smoothing out my hair, I called to Madame Giry,

"You may come in now, Madame."

The sound of a key clicking into the lock could be heard, and then, she entered. Matronly clad in appearance, I soon learned that this characteristic fit Madame Giry perfectly.

Her eyes immediately went to my hands. Clicking her tongue, she grabbed them from my sides and began removing the stained sheets. Her expression did not falter as she checked the condition of them, merely she went back to the door and emerged with another woman.

"Alessandra, this is Madame Carteu. She will see to your injuries." A short, rotund woman, clothed in a simple gray dress stepped forward. Her face, though lined with age, still retained a jovial glow about it. She smiled, and I politely returned the gesture.

I sat down on the bed, while Madame Carteu began to unveil numerous bottles and vials from the large bag she carried with her. While she was preparing for the treatment, I decided to voice my concerns about my position here at L'Opera Populaire.

"Madame Giry, I'm afraid I can't…I won't be able to work for some time." I muttered, staring at my feet.

"I have already discussed your position with the managers."

Surprised, I looked up at her, hope filling my somnolent eyes. "You have?"

"Yes, and they have agreed to keep you in accordance to your contract. Provided that you are able to resume your work in one week's time."

I couldn't hide my elation, my face breaking out into a broad smile. "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much!" I beamed, "You have no idea how much I appreciate it, Madame."

She nodded and turned her body away from mine, towards the mirror. I bowed my head again, not wanting her to see my shame. I knew that I would pay for my curiosity. She said nothing at first, only inspected every inch of that mirror under her piercing gaze. Silence engulfed the room, the only sounds emanating from my whimpers of discomfort.

Madame Carteu had begun tending to my hands, and I gasped as the stinging salve burned my flesh. She only whispered mock comforts to me and continued her work. When she was at last finished, she wrapped my hands in fresh bandages and bid us good-day. As soon as the door clicked shut, I braced myself for the confrontation that was to be had.

I waited, my attention fully absorbed into the intricacies of the rug that lie before my bed. Madame Giry had every right to be angry with me, I had, after all, directly disobeyed her. She had been kind enough to let me use this room, to convince the managers to let me stay employed at L'Opera, and I had abused her kindness. _She did not understand! How badly I needed Him!_ _How terribly I yearned for Him! _

I was only vaguely aware of her frame, now sulking up to the large mirror. I was too absorbed in my own thoughts. _Maybe I could explain this all to her, maybe she would…_

"Alessandra, I am sure by now you have heard the tale of the Phantom of the Opera?"

My head snapped up to meet hers, the inner battle of words inside my head erased at the mention of Him. I only stared at her, unsure of what to say.

Meekly, my mouth managed to form some sort of a response, "Yes, Madame. I have heard of Him."

She nodded, her thoughts clearly affirmed with my answer. She suddenly moved away from her fixed stance at the mirror, and came to sit beside me on the bed. I was taken aback by this action to say the least.

"Then you know of Christine Daae and the events that surrounded her temporary disappearance from L'Opera?"

I shook my head, "Yes, such a heartbreaking story."

Madame Giry's eyes glazed over, and for a moment I thought tears were beginning to form on the outside ridges. She composed herself and continued, "Yes, indeed. What happened here last year was very dreadful. Many people were…_are_ still affected by this tragedy."

I knew not where this conversation was going. Albeit, I was still very grateful that Madame Giry was not angry with me for revealing the mirror. I was still not comfortable discussing this delicate subject with her, but I was fascinated at the prospect that she would reveal something I did not yet know about Erik.

"Alessandra, He is a very _eccentric_ man." Each word was carefully thought out and spoken with the utmost of concern.

I tilted my head questioningly, my eyes searching hers in curiosity. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I know that He visited you last night. I know that you have no doubt figured out the secret of the mirrors," she sighed, motioning towards the wall that was adorned with the reflector. _The mirror! Of course, He had come to me last night from the mirror! _This was the secret Madame Giry was hiding, the secret I had happen to stumble upon.

"I, nor anyone else, can predict His actions, His desires," a look of foreboding shrouded her likeness, "I only can warn you to exercise extreme caution. We do not want the past to repeat itself."

I did not possess the amount of attention needed to fully comprehend the words, I was enthralled with the mirror. My mouth hung open in a dumb stupor, my head vaguely bobbing in response to her warning. There was a shift in weight beside me and I realized that Madame Giry now moved towards the door. I forced myself to turn toward her, still not leaving the bed. _She was leaving! _I still had so many questions to ask her, she seemed to know much more of this Opera Ghost than I had believed.

"Madame Giry, I have heard nearly everyone here in the theater speak of Him. They speak of such cruelty, such brutality. They talk about Him as if He were not human, not deserving of kind words."

Her shoulders rounded for a moment, then she regained her posture. Turning about to face me, she sluggishly walked over to the bed, carrying an invisible weight upon her aged body. A shaky hand caressed my shoulder.

"I can not understand why people are incapable of seeing past His appearance."

I shuddered. I knew all too well the burdens that a face could produce.

"He is so full of passion, so full of love. These emotions are just misguided, suppressed for so long that they have twisted into obsession, and He…" she stopped, afraid to continue. Her head bent, her eyes looked up at me through her sparse lashes.

"He has become _mad_."

It was a whisper so quiet I thought for a moment that I did not hear it at all. The words hit me hard. It became difficult to keep my breathing steady, I stood up ushering Madame Giry towards the door. My heart thudded inside my chest, each beat wanting to forget what it had just heard. My mind, however, replayed the words over and over again.

"Thank you, Madame, for all your help. It is much appreciated." I was surprised by the icy demeanor my voice had taken on. If she questioned my sudden change in conversation, she made no mention of it. With a lopsided smile she left, gently closing the door behind her.

It took some severe self control not to dash over to the mirror and try to pry it open with my useless hands. I tried to calm myself and continued to prepare for the day. I chose a pale blue gown from the dresser and twisted my waves into a tight bun at the base of my neck. Trying to ignore the mirror was no easy task. Just as I slipped my tiny feet into the cold black ballet flats that lie beside the door, I heard a noise. I jumped back towards my bed, startled by this. I glanced around the room, there was no sign of anyone. _No sign of Him. _

My mind was playing tricks on me. Still, I could not overlook the fact that the mirror was there, and that probably meant that He was also there. Madame Giry had just revealed that Erik could leave and enter rooms as he pleased via the mirrors, I suddenly was filled with a newfound respect for this man. _He certainly was a genius! _But, with this new respect came more fear. Fear that He be anywhere at any given moment. _He became mad! Mad!_

I brushed my insecurities about Him aside. My curiosity took over once again. Without thinking, I rushed to the mirror, desperately trying to open it and reveal the passageway I knew was lurking behind the glass. I pushed, I pulled, I pounded and shouted His name. All to no avail. I frowned, a childish pout forming over my mouth. With my hands firmly planted on my hips, I gave one last glance around the room and opened the door to leave. As I stepped over the threshold, I noticed something on the exterior of the door I had not seen before. Strange letters were imprinted on the wood, as if to mark the property of the room. The words were faded and almost illegible, but nonetheless there. On the outside of the dressing room door, in washed out script was the name _Christine Daae_.


	14. Correspondence

**(A/N:) Sorry this update took so long, it has been really busy around here! Anyway this chapter is in like a flashback format, so don't get confused! Enjoy! And as always, please R&R!**

* * *

Over the next few weeks, my hands began to heal nicely. Though they were still recovering, I had regained most of their use. Getting dressed was no longer a tedious chore, and I found that I could accomplish the simpler tasks that I had taken for granted with ease, once again. I had learned, over the years of my life, that all actions have their appropriate consequences. This expression held true to my injuries. Yes, I could use my hands again, but they would be forever scarred. Scarred by the choices I made. Scarred by a decision I had acted upon in an instant, without thinking, purely upon instinct. Now, I was forever plagued with that consequence. The flesh on my hands was still raw, but I could already see the scars beginning to form on the once delicate flesh. My hands were my livelihood, without them, I had no career, no future!

I sighed, turning my pallor face to the inviting rays of the sun. I had a few moments to spare before rehearsals began and I had decided to retreat to the roof of the Opera House. It was calm and tranquil, so unlike the frenzied panic that erupted in the halls before any performance commenced. Situating myself under the looming sculptures of angels and cherubs, the envelope still clutched in my hand, I hesitated before opening it. As my shaky fingers tore open the familiar wax seal, I felt my mind begin to drift back to the events that unfolded during my recuperation.

* * *

It was in those beginning days of recovery that I had truly understood what fear meant. I was terrified beyond belief that I would never heal, that I had lost all use of my appendages. I would no longer be able to carry out the duties to which my position here at L'Opera demanded of me. I would have no choice but to take to life on the streets of Paris. I knew that I would have to return to my life as a courtesan. That I dreaded above all else. I would much rather freeze in the numbing wind of the Parisian winters, starving slowly, begging for any kind of nourishment. _I would rather die…_

Slowly, I sank into an extreme melancholy. Leaving my room only when absolutely necessary. It was taking longer than expected for Madame Giry to repair the broken mirror in my old stateroom, so I was still occupying Mademoiselle Daae's previous dressing room. Not that I minded in the least bit. Though, I did not see or hear of Erik during those days, it comforted me to be staying in that room. Knowing that it once belonged to Christine made me feel closer to Him. Each night, I laid myself next to the mirror, talking to Him as if He were in the room with me. I poured out my hearts content each and every night. I spoke of my desires for the future, the travesties of my past. I spoke of hopes and dreams I once had, and how they all managed to end up disappointing me in the end. All my sense was instructing me to cease this foolish torment, to accept that Erik wanted nothing more of me. _That I wanted nothing more of Him. _My heart, however, beat to the tune of a different rhythm.

Looking back on those few, dismal days, I realize that perhaps I too, was going mad. Driven by an invisible force, a relentless need for companionship. We were so alike in our experiences, in our past. Yet, I felt a world apart from Him. I felt a world apart from anyone. I became somewhat of an Opera Ghost myself. Sneaking off to the kitchens under the cover of darkness to collect some bits of provisions that my body had convinced me I needed. Not wanting to encounter anyone else in fear of what they might ask me, what they would think of my sudden change in disposition. In the earliest hours of the morning, I scampered off to the baths that I shared with the corps de ballet. I was always the first to enter and the first to leave, returning to my room before anyone had taken notice of me.

This behavior carried on for nearly a week. The only visitors I had were Madame Giry, who frequented the hall anyway, and Charlotte who was truly concerned for my well-being. I dreaded each time I heard a knock upon the door, and counted the minutes until I would be left to myself again. Free to converse with Erik as I pleased. To talk until my jaw grew tired and my eyes became weary. I would fall asleep before the mirror, only to awaken every few minutes in terror that Erik would decide to bestow His presence on me and I would miss Him through my slumber.

When the first week was up, I was summoned to return to my costuming duties. I hated having to leave the mirror, hated having to leave Him, but there was no alternative. My passion for aesthetics feigned, and my days filled with routine. All passion from my life was drained from me, that empty void now filled with thoughts of Him. After I had completed my tasks onstage, I would retreat to the solidarity of Christine's room, _my_ room. The work load proved rather tiring and my evenings were spent nursing my poor hands back to health. I often stared at the mirror, the wheels in my head turning, trying to figure out the secret of the mirror. _How did he open it?_

The intense longing and need to see Him again, to hear that voice again, did not fade, as I thought it would, with time. On the contrary, it only grew stronger. It consumed me, He consumed my every thought, my every action. Even during rehearsals for L'Opera Populaire's newest production of _Aida_, I would find myself questioning the dancers about _le Fantome_. I poked and prodded their knowledge of Him, scanning for any information that someone may have forgotten to mention. Some only scoffed at me, others indulged me with their own absurd versions on what took place that fateful evening. Some cowered at the mention of Him, others reprimanded and insulted His being. This continued for awhile, and eventually I gave up of ever finding any convincing facts about Erik.

One night, I was curled up in the corner of one of the costuming rooms, my eyes strained from hours of detailing and refining sketches of the characters. My eyelids had just begun to droop when I heard a loud crash coming from the direction of the stage. Surprised, I hurried over to see what the commotion was about. I was greeted by darkness. The lights had been put out long ago and the stage seemed completely desolate. I realized how long I must have spent cooped up in that tiny room, it was well past midnight now. Deciding that it must have been my imagination, I turned around to collect my sketches and hurry off to bed.

Something made me stop. Mere inches in front of my face I detected a presence. I did not know what it was, though my mind had begun conjuring up ghastly images that not only disturbed me, but frightened me to the core. I could not move, my body a frozen block of ice. The figure advanced and the breath was taken hostage from my needy lungs. I strained my vision through the blackness that surrounded me, my eyes growing accustomed to the lack of light.

It was so slight, so delicate, I was not even sure I had felt it. Something smooth and cool had brushed over my left hand, caressing my tender palm. I gasped at the contact, the familiarity of it all suggesting what I had been trying to repress all this time.

"Erik?" it was barely a whisper. As soon as the name escaped my lips, the contact was broken and I was left in the middle of the stage. Alone. _Well, almost alone._

I rushed about, my arms outstretched, groping for his figure. The blackness faded into a dull gray and I was now able to make out shapes with my eyes. I could see the rafters above me, miscellaneous props strewn about the stage, but I did not see Him. I dared myself to call His name louder, "Erik!" Still, nothing. I was so close, _so close! _I knew He had been there, it was His large, leather clad hand that reached to stroke my bandaged one. After all this time, all the days spent infatuated with Him, closed up in Christine's former dressing room, _I was so close_. The distance between us was growing, I could not give up so easily. I searched the stage and the adjoining hallways for at least another hour. I pleaded for Him to come back, cried His name over and over again.

It pained me to end my search, but daylight would soon dawn and light was the enemy. Feeling defeated I retreated to my room. I struck up a match and began lighting various candles, a soft glow filled the room. Candlelight danced off the walls and reflected in the mirror. I caught my reflection as my eyes bounced with the flames in the glass. Tired and drained of all luminosity, my eyes began to tear. I stared the mirror down, knowing that He had to be there now, watching me. I felt my stomach tighten, my heart twisted and contracted in pain. _I could not go on like this! _

I was obsessed! I was mad! Slowly, ever so slowly being driven insane by Him! His lack of presence intruded my thoughts, His exquisite voice emblazoned into the depths of my soul. _What did He want of me?_ I offered my innermost secrets to the mirror every night, yet the only reply I received was silence. He haunted my dreams, and in those hours I was awake, shadowed my every step. I cried out aloud, "Oh, Erik! Why must you torture me so?"

Silence was my only answer.

I threw myself upon the bed. My face did not hit the cool satin pillowcases that I had expected. Rather a thin, grainy sheet contacted my damp cheeks. Confused, I examined this oddity that lay on my bed. It was an envelope, rather unassuming in appearance. Once I turned it over, however, it peaked my interest. The seal was of a scarlet wax in the figure of a skull. It struck me as rather strange to have a seal that morbid, but I did not dwell upon it and flipped it over again to inspect the front of the letter. _Mademoiselle Alessandra deCapriana_ was scrawled out in red ink, fashioned by a crude hand. I tore the letter open, that overwhelming curiosity rising through my bold Italian blood.

_Mademoiselle Alessandra,_

_It has come to my attention that my dear friend, Madame Antoinette Giry, has confirmed the truth of my presence to you. You are one of the very few that know of my continued existence here, at my opera house. I trust that this information will not become a burden to you, nor that anyone else will be informed of what you know. Furthermore, it is in your best interest to cease all attempts to locate me. Those who have discovered the secret of the mirrors and sought out my lair never return to the daylight. Therefore, I urge you strongly to forget of what you know and continue your work here in a normal fashion. I have seen the rehearsals for Aida and am quite impressed. You have talent, Mademoiselle, and I greatly respect your aptitude for the position._

_If I am ever in need of your services, I will contact you._

_Your Obedient Servant,_

_O.G._

I read through the letter twice more, making sure I had fully understood its contents. Trying to analyze this message, looking for any and all meaning was rather complicated. The first thing that struck me was the forewarning, _was He threatening me?_ Of course I knew about Him! My life had only revolved around His being for the past month! Reading those lines, instructing me to be cautious, to tell no one of what I knew, irritated me. He did not know how much I wanted, how much I needed to be with Him. I felt alive when I stared into those depthless eyes. Alive, for the first time in years. They held such beauty, such pure, innocent splendor. When He held me with those eyes, all my fear, all my insecurities were sucked into the pits of them. My past disappeared, if only for a moment.

My heart ached at the thought of those eyes. Painfully, I returned my attention to the letter. Something was scrawled near the bottom, something that I had not taken notice of upon my first readings.

I trust that your hands are healing nicely. Such a pity it is to have a disfigurement upon your faultless features. A word of suggestion, perhaps you should change your dressings more often. I see that the infection still lingers on your flesh.

It was all very ironic. The horribly disfigured Phantom of the Opera feeling sorry for me at my scars. It filled me with sadness to think of how much worse His deformity actually was. I had been told that to look upon His face was to look upon Death itself. I shuddered at the thought. He, Erik, was certainly no reaper of morbidity. He was a man, a beautifully tragic human being cursed with an unattractive face. Cursed with such raw, true talent and denied the right to share it with the world. _All because of His face._

Scanning the lines one more time before I set the note down, something odd struck me again. _He can see my dressings? He knows about the infection? _A strange feeling arose in my chest. It resembled hope, but I knew that I could not afford to hope right now. He had seen me, maybe was still watching me behind the mirror. The letter flew from my hands and landed silently on the floor as I ran to my reflection. I kneeled before it. My logic starting to come to play, I decided to look for some sort of device in which He used to open the mirror. Through trial and error I had learned that it was impossible to pry it open using only my sheer will and weak force. _He was much smarter than that. _I did not give a second thought to His warning's in the letter, my desire to see Him was stronger than that of any threats, even ones of death.Though it sounded absurd, I felt that if I never laid eyes upon His mysterious features, never again heard that enchanting voice, my life would lose all meaning.

I inspected every inch of the frame, tediously observing every nook, every engraving. I found nothing. There must be some way, _there had to be a way! _My back was aching from the position which I had held for quite some time now. With a sigh, I arose from the floor. I reluctantly readied myself for bed, silently promising myself to continue my search in the morning.

The next day, _Aida_, was scheduled to have its opening performance. I knew it was to be a very busy day, so my examination of the mirror began early. My frame tossed and turned in the covers, I found it nearly impossible to sleep. Aggravated, I threw the velvet blankets off of me and dressed myself as quickly as I possibly could. Without so much as a care to the condition of my wayward waves, I pushed them aside and bent down to inspect the frame of the mirror.

It was sometime later that my friend Charlotte decided to pay me a visit.

"Alessandra, are you awake?"

I sighed, my palms coming up to press against my eyes. I relished the feeling for a moment as bursts of bright colors exploded in the darkness of my eyelids. Standing up, I called back, "Yes, Charlotte. You may come in."

"Good afternoon! Are you ready for tonight's performance?"

_Afternoon!_ Was it that late already? I must have been obsessing over that mirror for hours! Trying to hide my surprise I nodded and bared a large, toothy smile.

"I am very excited for tonight. Um, shouldn't you be…preparing yourself?" I motioned to her dressing gown.

"Yes, actually I was on my way to the final fitting of my costume. I just wanted to tell you that Madame Giry informed me that you will be needed at half-past six in the dressing rooms."

"Thank you, Charlotte," I said inching my way towards the door, "You best hurry off to your fitting, you and I both know Madame Dunatelle does not like to be kept waiting." And with a sarcastic smirk and a light chuckle, she took her leave.

I had just over an hour to myself and I could not remember the last time I had watched the sun set. I decided to retreat to the Opera House roof and relax there for awhile. I grabbed my modest wool coat from the closet and stepped out into the halls. I stepped into chaos. People were everywhere! Some were running madly to and fro, bursting through various doors, only to dash back in moments later. Some were shouting orders, in multiple dialects, and directing the cast to rehearsals. I weaved my way in and out of the crowd, finally reaching the windy staircase that would lead me up to the roof. I sighed, already growing weary at the thought of the journey that lay ahead of me. Adjusting my skirts, I lifted them slightly from the floor and began to climb. I could not have risen more than three flights when a small envelope fluttered down, landing neatly at my feet. With much curiosity and excitement rising in my veins, I snatched up the letter quickly with my hands. I glanced around, searching for any sign of anyone, though I knew no one was.

I recognized the seal immediately and my legs flew out in front of me, sprinting up the remaining steps with effortless bounds. Thrusting the heavy wooden door open, the eerie orange glow of the setting Parisian sun engulfed my presence. The view was spectacular, and for a brief, _a very brief_, moment I completely lost myself in its splendor. The warm rays pulsed down upon my messy waves, the cool air blowing through them. I sat under a statue of an angel, or some sort of mythical God, I did not remember for my attention was directed elsewhere.

* * *

Holding my breath, my heart pounding underneath my ribs, I examined the letter. A wide, blissful grin broke out from my face as I stared at the red, waxy seal. _It was from Him!_ Gently, with much care, I removed the letter from the envelope and began to read it. 


	15. Under the Mask

**A/N: Thanks so much to all my reviewers! Muah!**

* * *

The hour passed quickly. Realizing that I had forgotten to take a pocket watch, I could only guess as to what the time actually was. The sun had set and night had fallen over the streets of Paris. Stars, innumerable and infinitesimal, sparkled with radiance against the dusky sky. The wind had increased and brought with it snowflakes, so light and feathery they tickled my skin as the settled atop my nose and forehead. I shivered. The temperature had dropped drastically since I first settled on the roof. I had not taken notice of the chilly breeze earlier, my mind was elsewhere.

Stories below me, I knew the final preparations for tonight's premiere of _Aida_ were being made. I grabbed the note that rest on my lap and tucked it away within the pockets of my coat, patting it to make sure it was secure. I rushed down the windy, iron staircase afraid of what would happen if I neglected to show up on time.

* * *

I burst into the dressing room, panting from my exertion through the hallways. Madame Giry cast a disapproving look in my direction, and doing my best to ignore it, moved over to the vanity where Charlotte and some other cast members were seated. Apparently, I had spent too much time on the roof. Apologizing for my tardiness, I immediately absorbed myself into my work. The girls chatted away as I moved over them, powdering their petite noses and rouging their lips. I saved the more complicated looks for last. The other dancers and vocalists had left to take their positions on the stage until it was only Charlotte and I.

"Alessandra, where were you tonight?" Charlotte questioned as I set a bold streak of kohl upon her brow.

"Hmm? Oh, I was just taking in some fresh air atop the roof. It really is quite lovely up there," I sighed dreamily.

"I see," _was that a hint of anger rising in her innocent, little voice?_ "And would this brief recess have anything to do with the note I found in your room?"

I froze. _How could she…how did she…? _I felt faint, my stomach churned nauseously, my hands dampened with perspiration. I swallowed hard, and drew in a shaky breath.

"Whatever are you talking about, Charlotte? I do not-"

"I read the note! I know about this 'O.G.'! It is Him, is it not? The Pha-" I waved my hand wildly, silencing her. We stood there, my eyes concentrating on the large mirror in the corner of the room. I half expected Erik to come bounding through the glass, furious with me for letting our secret slip out. _Our secret…_

"What are you thinking, Alessandra? Corresponding to a mad man!" Her eyes, now stern and unyielding, locked onto mine. I tried to think of an explanation, my mind blanked, emptying of all reasonable answers. _She knew, _and there was no avoiding that.

"What were you doing in my room, reading my _personal _letters?" I shot back, _what right did she have to rummage through my belongings?_

Her small frame shifted uncomfortably in the chair. I turned my back to her, not wanting her to see my flushed expression.

"I did not go there with the intent to search through your things, Alessandra, believe me! I only came in to fetch you for Madame Giry, you were needed early in the dressing rooms. I saw the letter, laying there on the floor. I picked it up so you would not misplace it, I thought perhaps you would forget about it with it concealed near your bed," she paused. Her voice wavered, "I saw that seal, that horrible seal!" she cried, shaking her head as in disbelief. "I'm afraid curiosity got the better of me and I opened it. I'm so sorry, please forgive me! I am only concerned for you, He is dangerous Alessandra! He is a murderer!"

I simply stood there. Not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do. Thankfully, Madame Giry strode in and beckoned Charlotte to the stage, it was nearly time for the curtain to rise. I felt her tiny hand rest on my shoulder. I tensed under her touch. With a sigh, Charlotte left, Madame Giry lingering only for a moment to stare at me, and set off after Charlotte.

I stayed there a few moments, I wanted to wait until the performance had begun so that I could return to my room unseen. As soon as I heard the symphonic swells of the opening chords, I ran down the hall to my room, fidgeting with the door handle until it clicked, inviting me back into my domain, _my lair_.

Before I could pull the door open, it slammed shut. I gasped, jumping back in fright. My body slammed into something hard and I fell to the ground. I slowly turned my gaze upward, my eyes drinking in the shadowy image that stood above me. His stance was strong, ever-ready, always prepared to attack. His hands formed into tight fists, positioned at the side of his waist, elegantly cloaked in formal evening wear. His mask seemed to glow, seemed to emanate light in the dimness of the hallway. I crawled backward until my shoulders hit the wall, afraid He was going to punish me.

Upon seeing this, His mouth turned from a harsh scowl into that of a sensual smirk. Obviously He took pleasure in seeing me cower before Him.

"Good evening Mademoiselle," His voice was like rich velvet, wrapping its comforting texture around me. Hearing Him speak, hearing those words, plunged me into a trance. I became oblivious to the world around me,_ He was my world. _I was no longer afraid of His actions, my mind couldn't conceive such an angel inflicting harm upon me.

He offered his hand and I took it. Sparks of electricity ran up my arm as I wrapped my fingers around His. He pulled me upward as if my weight was nothing. I steadied myself, placing a palm upon his broad chest for support. All at once I realized what I was doing and jerked my hand away, securing it to my side. For fear of what might happen if I looked once more in those eyes, I resorted to staring down at His feet. Black leather met the tip of my jaw, thrusting my head upwards to meet His. Our faces were parted by only a thin sliver of air, my cheeks flushed and my breathing turned heavy. I desperately tried to keep my eyes open, but I already felt them fluttering closed, against my will. His hand traced my cheekbone, following the curve of my face down to my lips. He parted them, and I could feel the soft grain of His glove upon the sensitive skin of my lower lip. I stood there, anticipating His next move. Silently I prayed for this torment to cease, and for His lips to take my own.

I nearly cried out with impatience when I felt His hand move down to the column of my throat. He increased the pressure, His grip tightening against my fragile neck. My eyes snapped open, His grasp was so tight I could no longer breathe! My senses flooded back to me and I clawed at His arms, fighting for Him to release His hold on me. I tried to scream, but my voice was stifled. My legs flailed wildly about and He thrust my body into the wall, lifting me off the ground. My hands groped at my neck, trying to pry the death grip off of me.

Colors began to fade, my vision turned blurry. A strange sense of calm washed over me before the blackness came. It was dark, the only sounds were harsh breaths being drawn in and out. They were not my breaths, however. Slowly I sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, accepting its enormity, its sheer vastness.

Suddenly, my sight returned, images coming into focus. I felt the pressure on my neck lessen and I weakly took in some much needed oxygen. My lungs burned with satisfaction. I saw Him scowling above me, His hands still lingered dangerously close to my throat. His chest heaved and the strong scent of candle smoke rose to my nostrils, bringing me back to life.

"I thought I had made it perfectly clear that _no one_ was to know of me!" His voice was not as nearly melodic as it was moments earlier. It was harsh and demanding. Our faces were still very close, but I realized that it was not an act of intimacy, as I thought it had been. It was an act of control.

The first thought that came to my mind was to run. To simply pick up my legs and run as far and as fast as I could. Away from Him. Away from those eyes.

_How could I have been so stupid?_ I spent my days lusting after that voice, craving His presence and now I finally knew the truth. _He hated me! _He had to have despised my very being. I tried to control my emotions, to bury them under the surface as I had been used to doing for so many years, but it was useless. When I was with Him, I had no control.

Tears welled up in my wide eyes and began to fall freely, my mouth quivering in sobs. I turned my head away from Him, not wanting Him to see. Muffled in between my cries, I whispered "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry," over and over again, chanting it like some sort of strange mantra. When my eyes finally ran dry, I gathered up the courage I needed to face Him again. He had moved away from me, His head downcast, His glossy black hair catching the candlelight. We stood for several minutes, I had no idea what to say or what to do. It seemed silence was all we would ever share. Finally he spoke:

"Aless- Mademoiselle," His voice was shaky and unsure. My brow furrowed, trying to read His actions. His stance was not refined or proper now, His shoulders hunched, for the first time since I had met Him, He looked weary, He looked old.

Before He could finish His sentence, my mouth opened and words came flying out, "It was not my fault, Erik, forgive me! She…she found your letter in my room and read it without my knowledge. I would never tell your secret…never."

He looked up from the floor, His eyes coming to rest on my neck. Bruises had already begun to form, I'm sure they were quite noticeable now. He walked toward me, and I flinched. It was an involuntary reaction, subconsciously, deep down, fear lurked. Though I tried to be brave, to convince myself that He did not mean to really harm me, I knew that I would always fear Him in a way. He saw this and stepped back, turning away from me.

"Do not let it happen again. I think you will find that _the Phantom of the Opera_," He spat the words, "is not an enemy you wish to make." He started to move down the hall. I panicked, _He could not be leaving…not yet!_

"Erik!" I called, "Wait!" I ran after Him, my breaths speeding up. It hurt to breathe so harshly under the strained muscles in my neck. He stopped and allowed me to approach Him. I swallowed, trying to wash the pain away. Struggling to form audible words, I added, "Please, Erik, know that I am on your side. Know that I would not deceive you." My voice was pleading, as if asking for something in return.

His hand stirred from underneath His cape and came to rest, once again, on my neck. This time His touch was soft and tender, gently caressing my bruised skin. I leaned into it and relished the feeling of the leather on my delicate skin. I brought my own bandaged hand up to cover His. Our eyes met. His were not angry or irritated, but filled with that same emotion I had seen weeks earlier in my stateroom. A look of longing, subdued desire flared in those hazel specks boring into my own chocolate ones. I felt His other hand reach up to my cheek, gently exploring the left side of my face. I wanted to feel Him, wanted to know Him, wanted to map out the own contours of His face. My other hand timidly contacted the unmasked flesh, my fingertips grazing over His brow. He shuddered under my touch and backed away from me.

I realized that the Phantom of the Opera was not use to the feeling of someone else's embrace, much less human affection. I knew of His torturous past, She had broken His heart. I found myself wondering: _Did Christine ever have the courage to touch Him so?_ I was determined to distance myself from any parallels to Mademoiselle Daae, I advanced upon Erik, my steps small but determined. With a look of surprise, He allowed my hands to settle once again upon His face.

I delved further, tracing the outline of His eye, His upper lip. His eyes closed, I could almost feel the icy façade melting under my hand. My ears were soon filled with His beautiful music, His voice, low and hypnotic, began to hum a haunting tune. I felt trapped again, completely under His control.

Some men manipulate women with money, some with charm. Erik manipulated me through His voice, through His song.

Suddenly I needed to know what lay under that mask. I wanted to know _every_ part of His face, _every _detail. I was not afraid of what He hid under there, though I had heard many horrid descriptions. Beauty, was not one of the traits I regarded anymore. He could not have been more beautiful at that moment. Standing there, His hands upon my face, softly humming to me. He was a damaged man, some would argue beyond repair. Still, I was drawn to Him, drawn to His pain. Seeing Erik's deformity would only heighten my affections for Him, that much I was sure.

Slowly, I forced my hand over to the mask. I looked for any kind of reaction from Him as my fingers came into contact with the plaster surface. There was none, He was still bathing in the comfort of my touch, completely oblivious to anything else. I slipped my thumb underneath it, gently prying it from His skin. With a swift motion, the mask peeled of His face, revealing to me His true self. In the darkness I could only make out an outline, a fuzzy outline of the right side of His face. He snapped out of his reverie, and let out a rough snarl. _Even His growls were melodic. _I did not have long to reflect upon it.

He broke into fury. Shoving me away, I fell to the ground, the mask landing near his feet. His hand immediately covered the cursed flesh, hiding it away from my prying stare. He furiously bent down to retrieve the mask, placing it back upon His face. He stood, fully erected, towering over me, with such anger, such despair. I knew that this was one action He would not soon forgive.


	16. The Worst of Sins

**A/N: Yeah, so this is a rather short chapter! I really couldn't find a way to effectively blend the next 2 chapters together, so I split them up to add to the drama! And I just know that you all cant resist a good cliffhanger! LoL! As always, please R&R!**

* * *

I collapsed into puddle on the floor, my arms wrapped protectively around me knees, my head buried into them. I knew, as soon as the mask thudded upon the cold, concrete floor, that I had made a mistake. A grave mistake.

I only wanted Him to know that His deformity made no difference to me, _I loved Him for who He was._ Love? No, I didn't love Him. I could never love anyone. I admired Him, His aura of mystery, His intoxicatingly seductive voice. I was drawn to Him, like a month thoughtlessly meandering towards a flame. There was no logic to describe my attraction to Erik, I doubt there are even words that could accurately depict my feelings for Him. I only knew what I felt, trusted what my heart relentlessly screamed to my head.

I felt His hand grip my shoulder, and He yanked me upwards. His eyes glowed with a feral capacity I had not seen before, they seemed to burn holes through my body. I looked away but He seized my cheeks, painfully pinching them together as He forced my head to meet His own.

"You promised you would never deceive me! Lies! All lies!" He spat at me, His lustrous white teeth gleaming in a scowl, His grip tightened and I could almost hear my bone crunching underneath His clutch. I whimpered in pain, hoping He would release me.

"You wanted to see Le Fantôme d'Opéra?" His hand clasped tighter, "Well, Mademoiselle…" Even tighter! "You…will get…your…wish!" and with a final squeeze, I felt my jaw lock. I could barely speak for as words came out of my mouth, they were nearly undistinguishable. The pain that emanated from my throbbing chin was so intense, so overwhelming, still it did not deter me from trying to make Him understand.

"Erik, please, I only wanted to-"

"Silence!" He erupted, His body shaking from expelling the thunderous word. His hand left my face and seized hold of my wrists, pushing them behind me, up against the wall.

This time, I did not stifle my discomfort. I let out a dreadful cry of pain, my voice wailing as my mangled hands smacked against the solid stone.

All that I had hoped of, all that I had dreamed of was now gone. Disappearing before my eyes. This was not the man that tenderly wrapped my bloodied fingers, soothing me with His gentle stroke upon my wrists. This was not the man who had saved me from a demented stagehand, helping to smooth my skirts back into place. This was the monster whom everyone else had warned me of. This was the notoriously deranged O.G., who tormented the cast of the Opera House, who kidnapped and murdered innocent people. This was the Phantom of the Opera.

And I had just committed the worst of sins.

For the first time I had known of Him, I truly was frightened for my life. Of course Charlotte, the cast, _everyone_ at L'Opera Populaire had warned me that He was indeed a murderer, that He had killed for seemingly no reason time after time. _Why did I think I was so different?_

He was hovering above me, mocking me with His body's sheer audacity. I was small, just barely reaching above five feet, and He had much more than several inches on me. His broad chest heaved against my lesser bosom, digging the whale bone of my corset deeper into the skin with every breath. During any other circumstance I would have appreciated, even admired His masculine physique. Now it was an obstacle that I could not overcome, it was merely a tool that He employed to weaken me, make me feel inferior.

His eyes now took on an angry shade of yellow, the softer green receding into the depths of His pupils. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter any words, any cries for help, another voice emerged from the shadows.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" the voice was shaky, but definitely distinguishable as a man's. It was probably one of the dancers returning to their dormitory, I hoped he had heard my struggle and would send for help.

Almost knowing what my reaction would be, Erik clasped His hand over my mouth, muffling my pleas. The footsteps approached, the soft tap of his shoes growing louder with every passing second. I looked at Erik who was now searching about the hallway, no doubt devising some plan for escape. I prayed that He would leave, return home to His dark cave and never bestow His awful presence on me again._ Or did I? _

Before I could answer my own thought, Erik hoisted me over His shoulder and darted quickly into my room, the door clicking softly shut behind Him. I struggled, I kicked and punched into His back, the cape ruffling with my futile attempts. He strode over to the mirror and tapped the floor with His foot, the mirror sliding open seconds later. He walked through the threshold, me still tightly bound in His clutches.

Oh God! Oh horror! He wished to take me with Him! Down there, into the depths of the Opera House! Into the Hell in which He resided!


	17. Into the Darkness

If I could have screamed, I would have. I would have screamed until my lungs exploded from the force. As it was, with my jaw locked and my face stifled in the folds of Erik's billowing velvet cape, it was a useless notion. The sound that I had managed to produce was quite an unpleasant moaning that resonated through my teeth making them ache all the more.

As the mirror slid closed, I knew that no one could hear me, that no one could help me now. We were consumed by the darkness, it spread like a disease over the hallway, swallowing it whole. The only light came from the mirror, the soft glow of the few candles that were lit in my dressing room breaking through the black of the passageway. I realized that He must have been watching me for some time. It was a trick mirror, allowing Him to see the entire room while being veiled by the reflection. It gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach to know that He had been there, and that I had been correct in assuming so all along.

Slowly, light began filtering it's way through the dark. Ornately gaudy candelabras clung to the slimy walls, small candles flickering eerie shadows upon them. Erik said nothing. He continued his brisk, yet graceful stride towards His home, His bony shoulders digging painfully into my ribs with His gait. I tried to shift myself into a more comfortable position, squirming through His impossible grasp. He only clung to my frame tighter, possessively wrapping His arms around my waist. I could not give up just yet. I would not allow Him to force me down to the cellars of _His_ Opera House.

_"Those who have discovered the secret of the mirrors and sought out my lair never return to the daylight."_

I panicked. Remembering those words, hearing the impending doom echo in my head, filled me with a strength I did not know I possessed. My voice pierced through the thick silence with that horrible guttural sound, my tiny fists pounding into His back mercilessly. My feet, still clad in the soft ballet slippers, dug into His abdomen and His hips. He cried aloud and dropped me onto the solid, icy floor. I sprang to my feet and began running away from Him, not knowing where I was headed; just simply glad to have escaped.

After a few seconds, the darkness set it once again. The adrenaline was still coursing its way through my body, making my hairs stand on ends. My eyes strained to make out any sort of shapes, but it was impossible. I stood there dumbfounded, my feet poised to flee if only I knew the way. I could hear Him breathing still, the harsh gasps for air booming through the narrow corridors.

"Oh, yes Alessandra! Do try and make an escape!" He laughed, a disturbingly menacing noise. I could faintly hear the clicking of His boots upon the pavement. He knew where I was, _He was coming for me!_ I felt around blindly, my hands hysterically searching for any kind of opening. "You are more likely to be eaten by the rats then to ever find your way out of this labyrinth!"

My mind barely registered the words. _No way out? Of course there is a way out!_ I did not, would not allow myself to give up. I knew that if Erik managed to drag me down to His lair, I would never return, never see the light of day again. My feet carried me through the narrow hallway, groping uselessly around the stony walls. The taps were becoming louder, soon the noise was deafening. My erratic heartbeat mixed with the labored breathing of my chest resonated through the tiny passageway. The clacks increasing, the sound swelling! Then, all was still. All was silent.

I felt a moist breeze sweep past my ear, my waves ruffling with the air. I stood absolutely still, for that was no random gust of wind that washed over me. I knew that in this dismal, bitter lair there had never been any warmth. There never would be any warmth.

Another passed, then another, and another. They seemed to be coming in tempo, each one timed with uncanny perfection. The pungent smell of brandy wafted up to my nose, wrinkling it with its strong aroma. As the innocuous breeze continued to come in perfect rhythm, whispers flooded into my ears. Though I could not distinguish their message, I continued listening to them nevertheless. They flowed so naturally, so beautifully, like poetry weaving its way into the depths of my mind. Physically, I could hear no music, the blackened hall was as silent as ever. But, in my head, a symphony erupted. A full concerto was being played, the soft purrs of the violin euphorically calming my tense nerves, slowly un-kinking my exhausted muscles. I tilted my head back with pleasure, no longer thinking of the looming threat that concealed itself in the dark. All that mattered was the music. Yes! The music! The breathtaking sounds that played were beyond words, beyond feeling. It was as if something inside of me finally exploded, relieving years of the built-up tension and torture. Nothing existed, nothing mattered anymore. _Nothing except the music._

My body swayed, back and forth in time with the notes. Lyrics and choruses were not heard, but rather felt. I could _feel_ the anguish, the sorrow, and the pain with each and every chord. I could sense the passion, the want, the need. The music was so strong, so powerful and almighty, it consumed me. Devoured my senses, my logic, until I was stripped naked of everything that belonged to me. My thoughts, my mind, my body and soul. It was like some cosmic puppeteer was insanely pulling on my strings, directing my emotions as a conductor would direct an orchestra.

I was vaguely aware of two objects creating pressure on my back. The weight started on the small of it, gradually smoothing its way up my spine, coming to rest on my shoulders. As the curious masses began pulsing into the tender skin at the base of my neck, I shivered at the all-too-familiar sensation. _So strangely familiar!_ I reluctantly snapped myself out of the melodious trance, my head jolting forward when my senses had finally returned. The weight remained there tracing heavy patterns onto my reddening skin. With a trembling hand, I reached up to distinguish the _thing_ that was now occupying itself at the base of my neck. It was long and sinewy, but the trait I most remembered about the mass was its frigid, clammy texture. With a gasp of recognition, I sprang forward, my mouth agape with unspoken curses and screams.

It was He whose hands seized hold of my shoulders, expelling His heated breath across my face. _Was it Him that also filled my mind with that music?_ Deciding that I did not want to wait and find out, I fought back against His grip, His spidery fingers burrowing themselves into the crook of my neck. With one swift move, I was atop his shoulders again, growling like some sort of caged animal. I tried to flee once again, but He was a quick learner. He held my arms together, clasping them behind my back. Restricted and tightly bound, I decided that any resistance was futile. Gradually I relaxed my body, limply flapping against His back with each step.

We continued deeper into this foreign world of shadow. Here, light and time ceased to exist. Suddenly, He stopped, causing my head to thump against His shoulders harder than I had expected. I winced as I strained my neck to see the reason for this abrupt halt. What I saw, I clearly had not expected. Not in the least.

My eyes widened in sheer fascination, the inky water of the underground lake reflecting into their russet depths. Tiny ripples of the water cascaded around the surface, gently rocking a small gondola that sat on the makeshift dock. Though I had only been at L'Opera Populaire for a few short months, there was never any mention of a submerged lake. So curious, so abnormal…_a perfect place for the lair of a phantom!_

He confidently stepped into the shaky boat, all but dropping me on a cushion at the bow. My body was grateful for the contrast of the soft, plush pillow to the firm, rigid frame of Erik. I settled onto the padding and turned so that I faced Him. He said nothing, only inspected me with those fiery eyes, now blazing with a mix of the lingering anger and perhaps a bit of apprehension. I expected Him to conjure up a sarcastive comment, mocking my foolishness for believing in, for trusting in Him. Without so much as a word of explanation, Erik grabbed the oar resting next to the boat and smoothly pushed off from the shore.


	18. Home, Sweet Home

**A/N: I kinda forgot to mention this, my bad! Anyways, there seems to be some confusion on which version of Erik I am using. I based His looks on the movie version, because I happen to believe that the half mask is more dramatic and tragic. His actions are very Leroux-esque. This story takes place a year after Christine left him, so he is in a much darker place. He was crushed, his heart was literally stomped on, so if his actions seem to be more harsh...that's why! LoL!**

**Thanks again to all my wonderful reviewers, I really hope you like this next installment!**

* * *

This was all a dream, _it had to be a dream!_ I closed my eyes, silently praying that when I opened them, I would find myself comfortably nestled in the security of my boudoir, realizing that this was just a nightmare, some ghastly hallucination that could not have been real.

With a deep breath, I slowly opened my eyes. There He stood, as authentic and as tangible as ever. His arms were sturdy, plunging the oar into the lake's ebony liquid with great force. Though we had been in the boat for some time, He did not waiver. He showed no sign of exhaustion, merely kept a steady rhythm, propelling me closer to His home, and closer to my certain doom. The fury had longed since washed off His face, now replaced by a look of subtle melancholy. Small, faint lines around His eyes and mouth appeared, His expression hinted that His mind was elsewhere. Lost deep in thought, concentrating on something of great importance.

_Christine._

I knew He had to be thinking of her. Though I still had much to learn of Erik's relationship with Christine Daaé, I had already formed a strong opinion on the matter. She had left Him down here, abandoned Him, condemned Him to a lifetime of regret. A lifetime to be spent in mourning. He had lost all hope, all reason to live. When Christine had left Erik, she took away more than her beloved vicomte and her precious freedom, she took away Erik's heart.

His lips puckered momentarily, forming His face into a painful grimace. He too, must have been thinking about the grand injustice of it all.

I sat there, at the front of the boat, looking up at Him. It was true, I still disliked Him for how He had hurt me, I was still angry with Him and I knew I would never feel the same way about Him again. But, despite all the physical and mental torment I had suffered in Erik's name, I could not bring myself to hate Him. After all this, I refused to see Him for the monster of which He portrayed. If nothing else, I felt pity for Erik.

His actions were harsh, brutal. _They had to be._ Here I was, taken prisoner by the Phantom of the Opera, being dragged to His lair. Anyone else would have given up long ago to try and understand His actions, yet here I sat. My legs folded in front of me, elbows propped up on my knees, carefully studying this strange man. My hands throbbed in pain, my jaw was swollen shut, and still I found understanding in my heart.

I understood why He had done all of those horrible things. Why He set fire to the Opera House, why He killed an otherwise innocent stagehand. _It was out of love. So in love was He with this naïve little ingénue!_ She had failed to see past all that though, failed to appreciate the depth of His love. No doubt a mixture of His crazed actions and His facial deformity scared her off. The thought of any woman denying such a man because of a trivial little thing like appearance made me sick to my stomach. _Then again, I had not actually seen His face yet._

She could have had the world. He would have worshipped her every day of His life, loved her with every fiber of His being. She would have had wonderful memories and stories of their times spent together to treasure, a devoted companion.

She would have had security, trust, knowing that He never would leave her, for He had no other choice but to live in another world. A world He had built up around Him, a place where beauty was truly in the eye of the beholder. Here, in this perpetual kingdom of darkness, physical beauty ceased to exist. Erik thrived on the beauty of the unknown, the complete fascination that only living in the shadows could bring.

_Above all things, she would have had His love._

He caught my eyes staring blatantly at His mask. That cursed mask! How tragic it was to have a face one-half that of divine perfection, every feature flawlessly sculpted. And the other like that of a distorted nightmare, half of a face that caused complete disgust, denying Him of any form of normalcy. I offered no explanation to Him, my mind still trying to comprehend this enigma that stood before me. So I continued to examine, appreciating every small gesture that His face made. Every blink of His eyes, every wrinkle in His brow, every slight scowl that formed upon His lips.

"It is not polite to stare, Mademoiselle," Erik snapped, bringing me out of my reverie.

I said nothing, for I knew there was nothing to say. I averted my gaze away from Him, staring off into the caverns behind His shoulder. Every so often, my eyes would meander their way back to His face. It was a stolen pleasure, the few seconds I would have to study it. Then, before He had the chance to come out of His ever-so-important musings about Her, I would turn my head away, returning to the dumb stupor of staring at the ceiling. I knew He had seen me doing this several times, and I knew that it pestered Him so. For I let my eyes linger a little longer every time, a gruff shot of air expelling through His nostrils notified me that it was, indeed, time to turn away. Our game continued for a few more minutes before we, at last, reached our destination.

The boat came to a sudden stop, knocking my elbows off my legs. I fell forward, but managed to compose myself in time to spare my mouth from crashing onto the wooden surface. Gingerly, I arose, still unsure of how to act. _Was He further enraged? Had His temper resided?_ I decided it was best to say nothing, for a change. Gathering my skirts, and straightening my back, I tried to assemble every ounce of dignity and courage I could find in my weakened body.

Erik departed first, and walked over to stand beside me on the shore. I admit, I was rather frightened to turn around. _God knows what horrors lay behind me!_ Reluctantly, He offered His hand to help me off the unsteady surface. I laughed inwardly, _ever the gentleman, even when He is furious with me!_ I refused it politely, shaking my head, and haughtily threw one foot over the edge._ I did not need His help!_ I was determined to prove that I was not some delicate flower, I was an independent, confidant woman. At least, I thought I was…

Being the exceptionally graceful _danseur_ that I was, my foot caught the ledge and I lost my balance. I toppled over the side, landing in Erik's outstretched arms. I tried to push Him off of me, to deny myself the wonderful feeling of being held securely in those arms. Seeing this as a sign of opposition and struggle, He wrapped those arms around my waist and carted me off the boat, still resistant, to His home.

The moment I saw it, I ceased my pointless thrashing, becoming absolutely still. Trying to absorb it all, my eyes frantically darted from side to side, taking in my new surroundings.

_This was not a dream._

It resembled something out of a gothic fairy-tale, an eccentric fantasy. In every aspect, this place was built out of a dream.

Where the lake had ended stood several steps, leading up to His home. The cavern hollowed out, forming a massive great room, where several other rooms branched out from it. A small dining table stood in front of me, accompanied by two chairs. _Was He expecting company?_ The thought was almost ludicrous, dripping with bittersweet irony. He had lived down here alone for years, yet it was constructed in a fashion that was meant to house much more than one person. There were many doors, all shut, of course, that encompassed the room. I guessed that at least one of them was a guest suite.

_Did He plan on Christine living here? Did He actually believe that anyone would come to His home voluntarily?_

If one had stopped looking there, Erik's home would have not seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, despite being hidden miles under the surface of the Opera House, it would have seemed almost _normal._

However, the rest of His dwelling was far from average. Further into the room stood a desk, mounds of paper swelled over the top, spilling onto the floor. Models and drawings were scattered about the makeshift office, bits and pieces of various fabrics tossed carelessly upon the intricate rug. There were sculptured busts statuettes standing near the back of the room, an assortment of different masks all covering half of their likenesses. I noticed one particularly gruesome covering, it greatly resembled Death's head. I remembered Charlotte telling me of the Phantom's unscheduled appearance last year at L'Opera Populaire's annual _balle masquée._ He had presented His first opera there, nearly terrorizing everyone in attendance.

He roughly set me down next to the table, whipping a chair out from under it. With a long, slender finger He instructed me to 'sit', I did as He commanded. Very timidly, I sunk into the intricately carved back of the wooden chair, nervously wringing my hands in my lap. I expected Him to take a seat in the chair opposite me, but instead He walked further into the room, pacing back and forth. His hair, usually smooth and sleeked back, now hung limp and untidy. His hands running through it every so often as His shoulders rounded, deep in thought. As Erik continued to fight His internal battle, I couldn't help but to indulge myself in another look at His den.

The organ demanded attention. It stood, in the very center of the room, perched up against the back wall. Its presence set the theme for the entire dwelling. The walls surrounding it were covered in rich fabrics, dozens of papers and staff notes pinned to them. Musical scores and detailed sketches were scattered about the floor, strewn about on nearly every desk, every table. I gasped at the grandiose of it all, broad, numerous pipes rising to grace the ceiling, their brass gleaming with the reflection from the water. A violin was resting peacefully on the bench in front of the organ, its expertly crafted bow lying alongside it.

Essentially, Erik was the music. I had been told that the Phantom was somewhat of a musical genius, composing operas and perfecting known classics in His spare time. Spare time? Certainly this was no hobby! No, music was His soul, He thrived on it, lived on it. Perhaps it was the only true way of expressing His feelings, His innermost desires. He had, after all, written His now infamous _Don Juan Triumphant_ to assault the senses, to cloud the mind, to blur people's perception of right and wrong. Of good and evil. Through euphonious notes and intoxicating librettos, He could literally control them with His voice.

This, was truly a terrifying thought. Part of me wanted so badly to hear Erik sing, to play for me and only me, here in the eerie solitude of this cavern. But, part of me wished that I would never have to hear it, never lose my will and be forced to succumb to the dominance of His voice.

Seeming to come to a decision, Erik confidently strode over to me, capturing all the poise of nobility, regality seemed to seep through His every action. His face slipped into that cool, calculating façade that seemed to be His trademark.

"Alessandra," He hissed the word as a snake would, His tongue coming to rest on the back of His teeth, "It would appear that we have much to discuss." And with those last icy words, He seized my arm and pulled me up from the chair, directing me deeper into His lair.


	19. Perfection in Flaws

**A/N: This is another short chapter, again to build the suspense! I can never resist a good cliffhanger!**

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The flames of the hundreds of candles that lit the room flickered as Erik and I passed by, His cape rippling in His frantic pace as He towed me about the lair. Eerily sinister shadows danced upon the walls, like a countless number of souls that seemed to haunt this subterranean Hell. _Would I be joining them soon?_

Erik constricted His grip tighter around my forearm and gave a sharp tug when I began to slow down, still in awe of the peculiarity of His home. I complied, and my tiny legs sped up in order to accompany His rapid pace.

If I had really tried, honestly assembled all my strength for one last attempt, one last try to escape, I knew I would have been successful. I could have started fighting, kicking, biting, screaming, clawing my way out of His hold. And then I could have ran, I would have run until my legs burned with exhaustion, until my heart exploded in my chest. I would have eventually found my way out of this labyrinth and returned to the world above, returned to the day, the sun, _the light._

No such actions were taken.

I continued to follow Erik, as a submissive dog would follow its master, blindly, unknowingly pursuing Him, wanting so badly to please. I wanted Him so badly to forgive me for my betrayal. Though I had the best intentions, removing the mask was not the wisest decision to make at the time. Erik refused to let Christine, His love and life, see His malformed face._ Why on Earth would He let me willingly look upon it?_ He barely knew me, and now I finally realized, that I barely knew Him. No matter how I had tried to convince myself over the last few weeks that He was not a danger, I had to face reality now. It's cold, hard hand had been slapped across my face, ending the childish fantasy and shoving me back into cruel reality. I had to accept that He was not, nor ever would be, the perfect specter that lived in my dreams, lulling me into a false world of hope and delight. He had faults, severe flaws, He was imperfect in every sense of the word, but even I could not deny the beauty in that.

He was to remain a shadow, forever shrouded by the shades of mystery.

Any and all compassionate feelings Erik may have retained for me, were now gone. Vanishing into thin air the moment my curious hands pried away the mask. I cursed myself for letting my relentless inquisitiveness stand in the way of common sense. It was not Erik's fault. I understood the pain, the immense and overwhelming pain, that was hidden behind that mask. I was wrong, completely cruel to have torn it away without warning. His mask was the last string attaching Him to normalcy, with it in place, His exterior was acceptable. It did not send people fleeing in the other direction, screaming and howling with fear and disgust. With the shears in my hand, I had cut that last connection away. Exposing Erik to the world, revealing His true self to me.

The mask came into full view again as He turned around to face me. His lips contorted in a menacing grin, the golden flecks of His eyes reflecting my apparent look of anxiety, my eyes wide with trepidation. He stopped in front of a closed door, the looming mahogany melting into the darkness of the cavernous walls. His dark leather gloves gripped the polished brass handle and began to twist it open. Before the door was to open, He paused, pursing His lips into mock consideration.

"Alessandra?"

I cocked my head to the side, unsure of how to respond.

"You wished to know more about me?" He added with a menacing sneer, His lips curling upwards revealing a mass of the fleshy pink gums that surrounded His teeth, "I would say that your curiosity, mademoiselle, has finally got the better of you."

I gulped down a breath of stale air, forcing it down into my lungs. Every hair on my body stood on end, triggering my internal alarm system. _What was He leading on to?_Silence was my only explanation.

He continued, "You wanted to see _le fantôme de l'opéra_! Now you must suffer the consequences, you will pay your debt!" His deceiving smirk broke, His face now lit up with a feral passion.

I shook my head, disbelievingly, and started to back away. Erik quickly snatched my arm, His other hand pushing the door open.

I was instantly plunged into an illusion. An outlandish, gruesome chimera that seemed to emerge from the most revolting corners of my imagination. Of all the things Erik could have been hiding behind this portal, _this_ was by far the worst.


	20. Through Torture and Rescue

**A/N: This chapter is longer, hope you all enjoy! And, as always, review, review, REVIEW! Seriously, you should see me blush when I read all the awesome things you guys are saying about this story!**

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A forest. _An entire forest surrounded me!_ The soft candlelight from the main room gave me a vague glimpse at the room, most of it still covered in dark. Hundreds upon hundreds of metallic trees lay before me, reflecting into eternity. Before I had time to react, speak, or even think, Erik shoved me into the jungle, the door swiftly clicking shut behind me.

Then came the light.

The blinding red light poured into the forest, filling it up with a suffocating heat. I desperately tried to find the door in which I entered, but it was gone. _It was useless searching for one of Erik's trick doors._ I laughed aloud berating myself for believing that I could successfully outsmart Him.

Instead, I resorted to the only defense I knew. I screamed with all the volume my meek voice could project. I sobbed His name, begging for forgiveness. Spewing forth useless apologies and empty promises. I cursed His name, attacking Him with slanderous words. Shrieking at His injustices, the cruelties in which He inflicted upon me. I cried, I wept, the very fascia I had spent all these years building up was now torn down, crumbling before me. This was not the charming courtesan who coolly shied away all her emotions. No! This was a frightened little girl, lost in a darkness she could not escape.

Finally, I stopped. I came to the conclusion that spending all my energy and strength begging for Erik to, once again, rescue me, was an asinine waste of my precious time.

It became increasingly hard to breathe under the weight of my corset and I finally gave in, collapsing to the floor in a puddle of sweat exhaustion. My back hit something hard as I sat, something supportive. I turned around to find myself staring back at me. My hair damp with perspiration, my cheeks flushed into an unnatural shade of scarlet, I brought my hand up to inspect this curious surface. _It was yet another mirror!_ In fact, I realized that the room was entirely crammed with them, shaping the area into a pentagonal prison. There was not a forest hidden ,in addition to the lake, buried under the opera house. Instead the mirrors reflected but one tree, one single, giant tree, positioned directly in the middle of the room. My eyes, wincing in the harsh light from above, stared fixedly at it. Mentally waging a war to keep myself from screaming, from literally clawing my way out of this room. Out of this twisted metal forest, this unbearably oppressive heat.

_He had wished to drive me mad!_

I could have been sitting there for hours, for days! Time seemed to pass agonizingly slow, each and every second bringing with it more heat, more thirst.

I would have begun to cry, in utter despair for the dreadful predicament I found myself in, but my body had no moisture left. It had expelled forth every last drop of water it contained. My body stung with the dry sweat, the salty taste hung thick on my tongue, now dry as sandpaper.

I was no longer thirsty. The excruciating thirst that seemed to have consumed me for so long, slowly began fading away, and with it so did my mind. The last thing I remember about that unspeakable forest was a rush of cold air sweeping over my shrunken body and then…_darkness._

* * *

My eyes were a leaden weight, and though I could not bring myself to open them, I had

regained consciousness. Slowly, feeling began to re-enter my body, a strange tingling sensation slowly creeping through my veins.

My mind awoke too, and was now drowning in memories of chilling images. Red was the only color I saw, blinding, red light pulsed behind my closed eyelids. It was almost calming in a sense, I found tranquility in the simplicity of it. Healing rays of warmth forcing my lethargic body to rouse. Feeling energized, and with great force, I finally compelled my eyes to open. Like coming off of a drug-induced high, images were fuzzy. Colors blended, distorted shapes shifted before me. I propped my hands behind my back and struggled to sit-up, but found that my efforts were in vain. A strong weight forced me back down, my head falling onto something rather hard and unfamiliar.

It was then that I saw the mask. That horrible white mask hovered mere inches from my own face, behind it the monster of my nightmares. I groaned and tried to move away from it, but He exercised His greater weight, and I collapsed back onto the bed.

_A bed? Where was I?_

It was then that I noticed my new surroundings. I was obviously still in His lair, the frigidness of the air and the darkened room did not suggest otherwise. But, what did surprise me was the condition of the room I was in.

It was small, no larger than my state room had been. Two small nightstands stood on either side of the bed I occupied, lavishly adorned with plush fabrics. I immediately noticed the similarity of the azure silken pillows that surrounded me to the ones that I had rested my head upon last night in Mademoiselle Daáe's former dressing room. A small vanity sat in the corner, but oddly enough, no mirror sat atop the table. A musty smell tickled my nose, a combination of dust and the ancient floral arrangements that were scattered along the floor.

The dust caught in my throat and I choked on it. The lack of water caused me to heave rather violently. I felt Erik's hands grab my shoulders and gently pulled me up. He supported me by resting His hand on the small of my back, the other one producing a glass which seemed to appear from nowhere in particular.

After my coughing had subsided, He pressed the cup gently to my anxious mouth, "Here, drink this."

The cold liquid teased my lips, but I shut my them defiantly._ He tried to kill me! God knows what vile poisons lie in that!_

Sensing my suspicion, He merely shook His head and lowered the glass. "Alessandra, I'm afraid that you are going to have to learn to trust me."

_Trust Him? Surely He was not serious…_

Anger bubbled in my stomach, annoyance rising up through my chest. "Trust you? How can I ever trust you again? You tried to _kill_ me, Erik! I nearly died because of your impertinent temper!"

"Come now, must you resort to such dramatics? I certainly _could_ have killed you," that infamous smirk forming once again, receding into the corners of His jaw, "Yes, that could have been arranged."

His voice trailed off, His eyes glinting in the dim candlelight. I sat beneath Him, my aching body shaking with fatigue. I stared up at this anomaly, _this peculiar man had a funny way of defending Himself._

"As it were, I was merely trying to teach you a lesson," He admitted at last, "You, Mademoiselle DeCapriana, are rather defiant of my orders. You did receive that last note I sent you, did you not?"

I nodded my head, like a child being reprimanded for disobeying his parents. Shamefully, I pointed a shaky finger to my coat that Erik had sprawled across the bottom of the bed. "I still have it."

He let out a sigh and grabbed the heavy wool and retrieved the note. The wax skull glared at me through its death eyes, mocking me for my stupidity.

"Yes, I see you have had the chance to read it." Fingering the envelope with His hands, which were, to my surprise, bare without gloves, He removed the letter. As if deciding whether to open it, He set it aside on the velvet blankets, turning His attention to me.

Forcibly, He thrust the cup at me. My eyes met His with apprehension, but the awful dryness of my throat overwhelmed me and I reached out to His hands, our skin brushing together as I took the cup from Him. He pulled away, and stood up, straightening His impeccable cravat. Of course the cravat did not need straightening, He was simply toying with it to keep His hands busy, to set His mind elsewhere.

The contrast of the cold liquid to my burning throat was a welcome sensation. Though it did have a rather bitter taste, when I finally downed the last of it, I set the cup aside on the vanity. I collapsed back into the luxurious fabrics, my body thoroughly exhausted.

There was so much I wanted to ask Erik, so much we needed to discuss. As if He could read my thoughts He instructed, "Sleep, Alessandra. We will talk later."

I protested, my face set in determination, I lifted my head from the pillows. He quickly brought His hand to my forehead, ever so slightly forcing it back to the cushions.

"Erik," I whimpered with all the stubbornness of a spoiled child, "Erik, why?"

His hand glided down to my cheek, caressing it with such tenderness, I was taken aback. I looked at Him quizzically, unsure and a little bit frightened by this sudden change of demeanor.

I resisted the urge, the now natural instinct, to become lost in that touch. To free my mind of all else and just feel. I felt my eyes sliding close, and I snapped them back open, my mouth ready to spew forth worthless babble.

"Shh, Alessandra. Sleep…sleep."

The bed sank with His weight, His lengthy figure casting a shadow upon mine. He removed His hand from my face, steadying Himself as He turned His back to me. With His legs hanging over the edge of the bed, His arms resting on the tops of His thighs He sat. _And He actually expected me to sleep?_

Nervously, I reached out to His back, my fingertips lightly touching His fashionable waistcoat. I could feel Him flinch under my touch, and He shifted His weight a little, informing me that this was not a welcome sensation. I withdrew, slightly disappointed, though I did not know what for, and turned over to my other side.

A curious thing happened, for some enchanting tune began to drift through the room. I recognized it immediately. It was the same song that was hummed to me the first night I lay at the mirror in the dressing room. The song that drifted me off to slumber, filling my head with pleasant dreams. _The same song that Erik rescued me with._

I marveled at how this man before me could be so cruel, and yet so kind.

The lullaby did not fail, for within a matter of moments, I was asleep. My mind filled with visions of black leather and white masks.


	21. A Secret Shrine

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates! I have been like really sick with pneumonia for a whole week! Yuck! Anyway, before you read this chapter, I just wanted to clear a few things up. This is not a romantic, fuzzy story where some chick meets Erik and changes him into a cute 'lil, all affectionate guy. Nope, in this story I am trying to display the darker side of him, a more realistic (at least in my mind) depiction of what would really happen if Erik ever met another woman. I'm trying my best to make Alessandra a real character with depth and personality, and not some wilting Mary-Sue -ish character, to really challenge the personality of Erik.**

**Sorry for my rambling! LoL Medication can do that to you! Anywho, here's the next chapter! Hooray!**

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The next morning, _or was it afternoon? Night?_ Time did not pertain any real significance when you lived hundreds of feet below the surface. I sat there, my legs clad in crinkled stockings, swinging through the air, my feet unable to reach the ground. I absentmindedly ran my hand over the smooth satin of the sheets that covered my lap, my thoughts obviously elsewhere.

Yes, Erik had thrown me in some menacing sort of torture room, driving me to the brink of insanity and nearly killing me in the process. He had abused my trust, my naïve, wholesome trust that I had instilled in Him. He was cold, harsh, calculating, temperamental, even pitiless _at times_. But then there was the other Erik. The Erik that sung me to sleep, that Erik that saved me countless times, risking so much for me, a woman He barely knew. He was warm, compassionate, mysterious, passionate, and even sensual _at times_. It was all true, but barely made sense, even to me.

My brain was still clouded from yesterday's events, and I did not feel like running in circles with it, trying to meticulously dissect the Phantom of the Opera. Speaking of which, was now curiously absent from my bedside.

I arose from the bed, my bare feet chilling against the frozen floor. Grabbing the cloak that was still draped over the edge of the bed, I wrapped in haphazardly around my shoulders, protecting my delicate flesh from the cold of the lair. I tip-toed around the room, hoping to find some covering for my numbing feet. I eyed the bureau, hoping that there were at least some ballet slippers confined in the wardrobe, I skittered towards it. As I moved past the vanity, I stopped dead in my tracks. Something very familiar grabbed my interest. A withered rose laid innocently atop the smooth mahogany wood of the table surface, a silky black ribbon wrapped around it.

_Was this where Christine had stayed? Was this her room?_

It so resembled the perfect rose I had found in Mme. Daáe's former dressing room. I picked it up, fiddling with the crunchy petals, running my fingers along the length of the ribbon. It was so beautiful, so flawless despite its age. I brought the flower to my nose, inhaling deeply its intoxicating fragrance, still pungent and aromatic.

Suddenly, a thought struck me._ If this was in fact Christine's room, surely there must be more to see_. I admit, I was rather curious to understand better this odd, little chorus girl. My narrow mind not able to comprehend why she had left Erik so willingly to escape back up_ there_, to the harsh realities of the public world.

Down here, in this world of night, reality was the last thing on my mind. If I had been logical, If I had any sense in my tiny, little brain, I would have stopped my search. I would have forgotten about this room, and venture outside to discuss rational things with a very irrational man. As it was, being here in this world of illusion, I couldn't understand what consequences would come of this.

Hot blood stirred in my body, my fingers twitching in anticipation of what I might find. Deciding that the dresser was as good a place as any to start, I gently pulled open the top shelf, careful to avoid any creaks along the way. Papers flooded the drawer, sketches that were very similar to the ones I saw at Erik's desk back in the main room. Elaborately detailed drawings of some woman, some unidentified muse with wild curls, staring bewildered at me through smudged charcoal. _Christine_. The pictures were so life-like, so genuine, it was as if she came alive on the paper. I realized how deep Erik's obsession ran, how he had memorized every contour of her face, captured every expression so faultlessly. _Obsessive. That was another trait which I needed to add to my list of the many characteristics of Erik._

Pushing these aside, I found something that piqued my interest. A small box, gently placed in the corner, covered by a pile of staff sheets. Looking around the room once more to ensure that I was alone, I removed the box from its resting place, carefully prying it open. A ring, a striking aquamarine diamond sparkled up at me, twinkling reflections in my eyes. I carefully took it out from the box, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger and bringing it closer to my face so that I could get a better look. It was impeccable, a perfect, unblemished stone. Cut masterly so that it contained a certain fire, an icy, sapphire fire that radiated throughout the gem_. Did Erik mean to give this to Christine? Did He offer marriage? Did she accept? Did she refuse?_ Every time I thought I had Erik figured out, something like this had to come up, sending my assumptions spiraling off track.

Still in awe of the exquisiteness of the ring, I decided it best to replace it before Erik found me sneaking through His personal belongings.

_Too late._

Things seemed to happen in slow motion. One second I was carefully setting the ring back in the drawer, the next it was being violently snatched out of my grasp. I gasped, for I thought I had merely dropped it, but the harsh breathing of something behind me suggested otherwise. Suddenly, a booming voice, louder and more frightening than any thunderous lightning bolt, crashed through the silence:

"_What_ have I told you of your infernal curiosities?"

I simply bowed my head in shame, knowing full well that this immature flaw of mine had, at last, caught up with me. I knew that nothing I said, nothing I did could ever erase that tone in Erik's voice, nor the look upon His face. As I turned around to face the consequences, like any adult would do, I was surprised to find Erik rather placid. Seeing this should have put me at ease, on the contrary, it had the opposite effect. _It disturbed me_. I had just betrayed His trust once again, assuming that He still had some reserved for me. His eyes were glazed over, His mouth hung in an awkward open position.

I approached Him, quietly coming to stand beside Him. For awhile, He stood, simply staring, the room casting a deep, hypnotic spell upon Him. We could have gone on standing there for ages, neither speaking nor moving. _Just staring_. When I could stand the not-knowing any longer, I gathered up the courage, and the strength, to speak.

"Erik, was this Christine's room?" It was an innocent question, one that should have been very easily answered. As I would come to learn, however, nothing was ever easy for an opera ghost.

"What did you say?" His head snapped sharply to me, those dangerous orbs on fire. They stabbed into me, causing my thoughts to scatter, my words fluttering out of my throat.

_Perhaps He didn't understand me_. I could barely understand myself with my jaw so swollen, my words were pained and forced, maybe I needed to repeat myself.

Very, very timidly I added, "Christine? Was this her room?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted saying them. He had, without a doubt, completely understood me the first time. He turned from me, placing the small box into the dresser and slamming it shut. He took harsh, hurried steps out of the room. I followed, not wanting to be left alone in some foreign place, especially when that unfamiliar room rested in Erik's bizarre home. He slammed the door, the heavy wood just missing my passing frame.

"Where did you hear that name?" He said it as not so much of a question, but a demand for an answer.

"I…I have heard the story. Of you and _her_."

"You are never, never, to speak that name again! Do you understand me?"

I solemnly nodded my head in obedience.

"So ungrateful you are! I saved you, Alessandra. I rescued you from that vile, little stagehand, and this is how you repay me?"

"Erik, please, let me explain!" I pleaded taking His arms with my petite hands. As soon as my flesh came into contact with the cloth which covered His skin, He ripped them away, flinging my hands through the air.

"I warned you, with not one letter but two to stay away, and still you did not listen. You directly disobeyed me, Alessandra." He advanced on me, His lengthy frame hovering over my body. "And now, you must suffer the consequences."


	22. A Corrupted Trust

**A/N: Some of you have been mentioning that Erik is being 'too mean' in this story. I just want to adress this; I'm writing him as I perceive what his character would be like after Christine left him. So, he has tons of reason to be angry at everyone and everything. But, I also put in elements of the other side of Erik, the passionate, caring side. I want to effectively mix both to create a fully dimensional character, one with flaws as well as strengths.**

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_Trust._ It's a very odd thing. It can be lost as easily as it is gained, and as I would come to find out, nearly impossible to re-create once its feeble walls have been torn down. As completely ludicrous as it sounds, on some level, I actually did trust Erik. I could only assume that some miniscule amount of trust was placed in me if only to keep His secret. _He had to have trusted me._ Trusted me enough to let me touch Him, if only for a fleeting moment. Trusted me enough to allow me to sleep in that sacred room, that sanctified shrine dedicated to His deepest obsession.

And I, in turn, had believed in Him. I believed that He would never hurt me, that this cursed angel was not the abhorrent monster that He seemed. It was true that I had doubted Him, when He carried me off like some prisoner down to His home, but still faith remained, against my better judgment. When He threw me in that horrendous forest, everything changed. My trust was shattered. I truly thought that I would die down there, that this fantasy I had been dreaming up had turned into a macabre nightmare. It was then that I realized how utterly foolish I had been. I had entrusted Him with my safety, my life, but most of all my heart.

Then, the most curious thing happened. For He actually released me from that desert prison, laying me upon a bed. He cared for me, tended to my needs, even sang me to sleep. Perhaps, He felt remorse for how He had treated me. Maybe even a little bit of regret for His actions.

I, of course, had been sure to destroy that. The minute that viral notion crept into my mind, the moment I decided to abuse what little trust He had given me, I unintentionally doomed myself. _Could I really blame Him for being so angry?_ The stalemate we found ourselves in was both of our doings. Each of us, no more or less guilty than the other.

All my life I had shielded myself from others. Constructed bridges only to burn them down in the end. But with Him, it was different. It was if I had no choice in the matter. He fascinated me and frightened me at the same time, a lethal combination. I had experienced feelings I never knew existed before.

I fell. Hard and fast. And He knew it all too well.

Everything was different now.

'_You must suffer the consequences.'_

I had no doubt that I would. I would get the repercussions I deserved for trusting in a ghost. For actually believing He was a good man, misunderstood, but nevertheless a good man. _How wrong I had been! _Those deceiving moments of tenderness, of displaying false affection, had all been an act. Each move premeditated and planned, luring me ever closer to His trap. Erik was a predator, and I had become His willing prey.

Here I stood, mere inches away from Him, _my dream. My nightmare._

Everything would be different now.

I decided that if indeed Erik did intend to keep me down here, which I had no doubt of His intentions, I would not play the wilting damsel in distress.

Still, He stood, imposing His presence on me, His mouth set into a devilish smirk. If I did not know any better, I would say He seemed rather pleased with my betrayal. As if it gave Him raison d'être, an excuse for His actions.

Taking a few small steps back, I straightened my spine, elongating my frame to it's maximum potential. Though it was not much, it did boost my waning confidence.

"And what, _monsieur_, would those consequences be?" I tried to add as much bravado and resonance to my voice as I could.

"Surely," He scoffed, "if you have heard about _her_, than I trust those little ballet rats have divulged the many other tales of the Opera Ghost to you. Would I be correct in my assumption?"

I found it difficult not to add even more distance between us as Erik casually slid forward. My bare feet kept retreating as I pushed a lump down in my throat. I had, of course, heard all there was to hear about the horrendous accounts the _compagnie de ballet _swore were true. I could only now presume that they did not mislead me, for I truly understood now what Erik was, and was not capable of.

"Yes," I breathed, my steps being halted by a wall. Erik seized this opportunity to employ His seductively daunting nature on me. He made sure His body stood just far enough away from me so there was no physical contact, but He was so close I could feel the heat emanating from His chest. His breath whispered on my neck with a mocking gentleness that contrasted to the bruised flesh. A finger slowly slid down my shoulder, outlining the curves of my arm. I closed my eyes, preparing myself for another physical punishment. All courage that I displayed earlier was gone, now cunningly manipulated away. His touch did not entice me anymore. No longer did it hold that intriguing sense of electricity that seemed to send shivers up and down my spine. Now it was cold, unfeeling, and strangely uncomfortable. _It felt like death_.

"Please…please, Erik. Stop," my voice was barely above a whisper, "stop."

* * *

With a childish whimper of pleading, the hands ceased their movement. I could hear Him sigh, the faint clicking of His boots retreating away from my shaking form. I slowly opened my eyes. At first, I stole a glimpse of Erik, His back turned to me, hands casually clasped behind Him, but when He turned toward me once again, my sight faltered. I had to look away. I cringed as I heard Him advance, _would He punish me for sniveling like an imprudent child?_ Before I could answer my own question, I saw Him shift His weight to one leg out of the corner of my eyes, as if waiting for some form of acknowledgement. It slightly amused me, and I relished that I had found Him, the ever aloof ghost, to have very little patience. One would think that spending so much time alone would only increase the level of tolerance. One would be wrong in that assumption.

I lifted my head to meet His gaze. My waves were tangled, sticking about my face in various places. One very large lock hung profoundly over my left brow, drooping down the length of my face, completely obscuring my vision. I lifted my hand to push it away, but stopped myself before I could, as Erik had already risen to the occasion. The leather was cool on my overheated skin as He gently brushed my hair aside. I would have taken more pleasure in His peculiar touch, and His odd sense of timing, but I reminded myself that He was different now. _He was not the same man I had taken interest in weeks ago_. He was violent, temperamental, and yet, so perplexing. The fact pulsed in my head, repeating itself over and over again Now, I found it necessary to continually remind myself when Erik lingered so close to me, displaying veiled sentiments or affection. _False affection_, I reminded myself.

I licked my dry lips, willing them to open and speak. "What do you intend to do with me?" I could have slapped myself for my ignorance. He coiled away at the words, slipping into that ominous dark side of His personality. _Why must I always ruin the moment with my constant babbling?_

"Follow me."

And with an elaborate swish of His hand, He willed me to pursue. I timidly shadowed His large steps, having to nearly run to keep up with His rapid pace. _Impatient, indeed!_ He stopped in front of a door, very near to the location of Christine's former boudoir. I nearly fainted at the prospect of another torture chamber, but was relieved when I found nothing more than a simple room behind the door. I shot Erik a questioning look, and was answered with an arrogant smirk as He ushered me inside the room. It was not nearly as elaborate as Christine's, but it was charming in it's simplicity. A bed, small wardrobe, and mirror-less vanity were compiled into the room, cluttering what little space that existed. I stepped further inside, all the while looking back at Erik who leaned against the door frame, arms folded in a rather brash manner.

"The bath is through that door there," He pointed across the room. I noticed His eyebrows arc in amusement, His mouth threatening to break into a sinister grin.

"I am confused, Erik," I admitted sheepishly, searching His eyes for any kind of answer.

It was no use. A malevolent, sickening smile spread over His face, I swore I could hear Him chuckle under His breath. "I hope you will enjoy your stay here, Alessandra. I am told that my abode can be rather…_accommodating_," He motioned to the furnishings.

My heart skipped a beat. Fear, immense and heavy, beat down on my lungs, crushing all the air out through my mouth. Erik had just confirmed what I had secretly dreaded, but always knew. He intended to keep me down here, as a prisoner. He would keep me until I was dead, until He had inflicted all the numerous, unspeakable punishments that glinted behind those fatal hazel eyes.

"You are keeping me down here?"

"Why, yes of course, mademoiselle," He retorted mockingly, "Since you find yourself so knowledgeable of the Opera Ghost's proceedings, surely you must know that no one has ever seen behind the mask and lived to tell about it."

I shook my head in disbelief. Stinging, salty tears threatened to flood over my eyelashes. "That's not true!" I yelled, "What about _her_, what about Christine?"

"Do not speak her name!" He screamed, stepping towards me. I backed away, retreating behind the bed frame, clutching the wrought iron for protection.

I wailed through my tears. "Erik, please, I meant no harm! I only wanted to see because…" I could not bring myself to reveal the truth. He would have never believed my affection to be true, not now. Not after everything else.

My sallow eyes turned to His, their russet depths swimming with tacit secrets waiting to rise. They silently begged for forgiveness, for understanding.

"See? You lie! Everything is a deception with you, Alessandra! Do not mock me with your pathetic attempts for pardon!"

"People will look for me Erik! Or have you forgotten that Charlotte knows of our correspondence? You cannot keep me down here forever!" I panicked, threatening Him seemed fitting in lieu of the situation.

"We'll see about that."

I could think of nothing else to do, nothing else to say. I gave into Him and let the tears fall freely. I sobbed and choked through my cries, my throat turning raw from the strain. I threw all manner and dignity aside. _How could I possibly act properly in such a situation?_ I flung myself on the bed in the heat of my tantrum, inwardly I hoped He would grow agitated with my weakness and release me out of pity.

Remaining down here, with Him, forever, was too much to handle. I fell apart, all resolve to appear strong and confidant dissipating with the tears.

I saw Erik, through my blurry eyes, begin to pace around the room. He raked His hands through His hair once more, as I had seen Him do in the great room earlier. Now it was at a more frantic pace, His eyes narrowing, wincing in pain. Before I could react, Erik ran over to me, steadying me by placing His hands on my shoulders. It was not painful, but He applied just enough strength to keep me from escaping. He started shaking me, my teeth rattling against each other, I cried out for Him to stop. He did not.

His eyes were somewhere far away from here, though they stared directly into my own. I could tell that He was not fully aware of His acts, not fully in control of Himself.

"Please, Christine! Stop…stop screaming Christine!" He pleaded.

I snapped my mouth shut. I was rather shocked at this sudden outburst and relented, softly hiccupping as I regained some composure.

Suddenly, He was brought back into reality. Staring down at me, He gasped and released me. His mouth opened, but nothing came out except unintelligible stutter. His visible flesh on His face flushed a dangerous scarlet, and He backed away from me, staring like I had suddenly transformed into a frightening monster.

"Alessandra," He reassured Himself, "Alessandra, stop," He whispered, burying His face in the leather of His gloves. He appeared so miserable, so heartbroken, it would have been inhuman not to feel a pang of sympathy for Him. _What had I done to Him?_ I thought, at that moment, I must have reminded Him of Christine. Begging for mercy, wailing for forgiveness. I knew it must have hurt Him terribly to realize the similarity of the situations. I imagined this notion would have empowered me, had I not felt so horrible for bringing such pain to Him. Though He inflicted physical force on me, I knew all too well the emotional damage was far more excruciating. Even if He despised me and tormented me, I was not the type of person to be malicious simply for spite. I would not hurt Erik that way.

I sniffled and wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. Erik lifted His head, but refused to look at me. "You are more than welcome to leave anytime you wish, but I highly doubt you will be able to navigate your way out of this labyrinth alive." With a gesture of finality He turned to leave, stopping at the threshold of the door.

I seized the opportunity, for I did not know when I would get another chance to speak with Him. I utilized the only strength over Him I possessed, and whimpered in my most distressed voice, "Do not do this Erik. I am not her, please don't do this."

Instead of scolding me for mentioning Christine, He simply hung His head, a droopy arm clasping the handle of the door.

"No, you are not."


	23. To Dine With An Opera Ghost

I collapsed onto the bed in a heap, drowning in a puddle of my own tears. When Erik left the room, I heard Him turn the lock, which was very interestingly located on the outside of the door. I knew that simply leaving to wander through the confusing networks of caverns and passageways was not an option. I had barely been able to see more than a few feet in front of me when Erik and I first traveled down the darkened hallways, and I was certain that although my eyes had become slightly more accustomed to the lack of light, I would most likely _never find my way out_ _alive_, as Erik so bluntly put it.

I sighed, pushing my tears back into my throat, and turned to face the ceiling. I stared up at it, all the while contemplating my options. Crying did not seem to have an effect on Erik, but the screaming had certainly gotten me somewhere. He turned into a completely different person when I was shrieking, His harsh exterior vanishing and a look, of what I could not yet define, replacing it. He even went as far to mistake me for Christine. _How many hours I could spend examining that little oddity!_ I wondered if I had inadvertently brought back some horrible, repressed memory of Erik's. Reminiscences of past days with _her_. I found myself pondering the content of their doomed relationship. Obviously Christine did not love Erik as He loved her. Perhaps it was more than love. Perhaps Erik's desire twisted into some more menacing form of fascination. Fixation. _Obsession._

I laid there, staring numbly at the few flickering candles that lit the small room, for what must have been hours, absorbing everything that had happened within the past day. _How dramatically things had changed!_ The very persona of the man I was so infatuated with was gone, melting before me like the wax slowly sliding down the body of the candles.

I now became aware at the dull throbbing that pounded against my sinuses. I pressed my ailing hand to my forehead, the cloth bandage soaking up beads of perspiration that still lingered. The pain in my jaw had receded, the ache exercised away from my bout of hysteria. I cautiously slid my fingers down to my neck, gently inspecting the bruises. My brow furrowed as I fingered the contusions, stinging from the slight pressure of my fingertips. I noticed that Erik had at least been thoughtful enough to leave a pitcher of water and a wash basin in my new boudoir. I rose from the bed, and slowly made my way over to the vanity. I grasped the handle of the carafe, then set it back down, realizing that the cup I was looking for sat back by the bed, perched atop the nightstand. I poured a glass and drank it down in one gulp, my chest tightened as the water, now unfamiliar to my body, slid down my throat.

I decided it was best to get some much needed sleep, perhaps things would be clearer when I was fully rested. I would accept my inevitable fate later, not now. Now, I needed to delay that unavoidable doom that lingered over my presence, spreading dread like an infectious disease.

I meandered over to the wardrobe, rummaging through its contents. A few simple, but still elegant dresses hung next to several fancier, more stylish ensembles. _Did He always plan on company?_ Shrugging, I spied exactly what I was looking for. A white linen nightdress hung in the corner, a luxurious azure silken robe accompanying it. I removed my dress, tossing it aside, and frantically tugged at the clasps of my corset. It snapped open, and I triumphantly threw the damned thing next to my dress on the floor. After changing into the comfortable nightgown, I returned to the bed, fully willing to continue with my senseless brooding.

I had imagined, that after the disastrous events that had taken place mere hours before, that sleep would not come easily. Once again, I was proven wrong. Seconds after my head hit the soft cotton pillows, I was whisked away into the numbing bliss that only the unconsciousness of sleep could bring. I was not one to succumb to flighty dreams in my slumber, my nights had always ended as they had started; alone, silent. So this night, much like every other night, commenced in that fashion. How long I lay there, imprisoned in that little bedroom, I did not know. But, when I woke, no longer was I alone.

* * *

At first, I simply laid there, blinking away the restful hours of satisfying sleep. His presence did not startle me right away, I suppose that I had become rather accustomed to His unabashed company. My mind was still foggy, not fully alert of anything yet. Those few blissful moments when you first wake and the world seems hopelessly perfect descended, and I gave Him a rather awkward smile, but nonetheless innocent. However, when I realized that I was scantily clad, my body twisted in the mounds of sheets, my demeanor certainly changed. I quickly untangled my bare legs, shoving them furiously under the duvet, and snatched the blanket up to my chest, clutching it as I caught my breath.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, trying to prevent the deep flush that was creeping its way up to my cheeks.

He gave no answer but continued to stand at the foot of the bed, staring at me with such strange expressions. He was still dressed in formal evening attire, and although His cravat was crooked and His shirttails hung un-tucked, there remained an air of elegance about Him. I only realized now that I had never seen Erik dressed in anything else, anything below that of the finest couture Parisian _dessinateur_s had to offer, it seemed to be His second skin. My eyes traveled from the suit's masculine silhouette to His face, my gaze temporarily resting on the garish mask before I averted it lower to His neck. I did not want to evoke His temper especially when He seemed in such a docile mood. _Docile._ I almost laughed at myself for thinking such obscure thoughts. Still, I knew I had to be very careful in my vocabulary choice when it came to conversing with Erik, one wrong move and there would be heavy repercussions.

"Do you intend on gawking at me all day? Could you at least wait until I am decent, Erik?" I asked, trying to add a hint of humor to my voice. My plastered smile faded when He simply nodded and retreated from the bed, His mouth still set in a harsh line of observation.

"One-half hour should be sufficient. I expect you in the great room when you are ready."

The door clicked shut and I breathed a sigh of relief. At least this encounter did not end in shouting matches or fits of hysteria. I left the bed and ventured over to the wardrobe where I grabbed a simple dress of a placid yellow shade. I had not been a woman who constantly fretted over selecting the proper gown for an occasion, but with its modest neckline and flattering bodice I couldn't help but feel satisfied with my choice. I found the adjoining toilette and freshened up with a lilac scented soap that beckoned to me from the table where a wide variety of parfum was displayed. It seemed that the Opera Ghost was indeed a clean one, who had a penchant for lavish soaps. I hastily threw my waves into an untidy bun at the center of my head, and sensing that my thirty minute time limit was near, gave myself a quick look-over in the room's vanity. Scoffing at my colorless face, I smoothed out the fabric against my abdomen and nodded in approval. With only a few minutes to dress, I had managed to make myself somewhat presentable.

Standing in front of my bedroom's door, my hand hesitatingly resting on the handle, I suddenly found myself torn. I knew that Erik was expecting me, but there was a side of me that wanted to displease Him. Wanted to make Him angry. It was almost a game that we played, reflecting off each other's nerves, daring to take that final step, to cross that ultimate line to send the other spiraling into chaos. The tables had turned, however, and I was no longer in a position to call the shots. _I had never been anyway._

Squaring my shoulders, I opened the door and vigilantly stepped out, closing the door softly behind me. The cavernous room seemed rather ethereal at that moment, the waves of the underground lake gently lapping against the stony shore set against a backdrop of colorful rocky walls aglow with candlelight. Erik sat stiffly at the table in the corner of the room, hands folded neatly on the glossy surface.

"I thought you would not show up at all, mademoiselle. I am so pleased that you decided to bestow your presence on me," His voice dripping with cynicism, He swept a gloved hand over to the empty chair that sat in front of His.

I approached the table, but did not sit right away. Instead, I stopped a few feet from the chair, a questioning look splashed across my features. Erik rose and pulled out the chair from under the table, looking back at me expectantly. I sighed and took my seat, relieved that He wanted nothing more of me than my company.

"You are hungry," this was said as a simple stating of a fact and not so much a query, "Unfortunately, I do not keep much food down here, but I can offer you some bread and wine."

It annoyed me how light and trivial He made the situation out to be. Before I could think about what I was saying, I retorted, "Well, if you intend to keep me alive down here, to be_ your_ prisoner, I suggest that you find some."

His eyes widened, apparently He was surprised at my crude remark, but I was not willing to apologize for my rash comment. I forgot that I was dealing with _the _Phantom of the Opera for a moment, for He quickly replied with an intimidating comeback.

"You would rather starve then? Perhaps that can be arranged!" He shouted, eyes glaring at me from behind the ascetic mask.

I had been defeated. Again.

I shook my head and He left, disappearing behind one of the many doors. He reappeared moments later, clutching a bottle and a loaf of bread in His hands. He set the bread down in front of me and began pouring the wine.

I knew then that we would never fully agree on something, I would always eventually give in to His demands. He suggested I eat, so I ate. He told me to sleep, I obeyed. He told me to sit, stand, speak, I succumbed. With all the obedience and intelligence of a trodden dog.

Remembering my manners reluctantly, I asked if He had already eaten. Shaking His head He replied, "No, I do not eat much. The prospect of food is so boring, there are much better ways to fill one's time."

I ignored the odd comment, and turned my attention to the wine. Excluding my dim-witted repartee earlier, things were going remarkably well. No fights or death threats were being thrown across the table with the intent to act upon them, and for that I was thankful.

I sat there, thinking of how to delicately bring up the not-so-delicate predicament of our situation. I wanted to explain my actions of earlier, I wanted Him to clarify His as well. But most of all I wanted to apologize for removing His mask, it was impolite of me to do so without permission. I knew that it was a tender subject, one sure to spark conflict, so I refrained.

"Tell me, Erik, what do you spend your time on then?" I asked, hoping to trigger some light conversation.

"My music, mostly," He gestured to the obtrusive organ that sat in the center of the room.

I waited for Him to continue on, but He had answered my question, and I could see that was all that I could expect of Him. After I finished eating, I drank down my glass of wine. Erik offered me more, but I politely declined. We sat, almost as an old married couple would, neither speaking, just sitting in each other's company. The silence seemed to suit Erik. I, however, was a woman. And a rather talkative one at that.

"Erik, I wanted to apologize…" I began but was abruptly cut off. He stood from His chair and came over to position Himself behind me. I arched my neck back to see what He was doing, but the gloves caught my shoulders gently placing them back into their previous position. I dared not to move any more, I even forgot what I had been trying to say.

I could feel His chest tapping onto my back with every breath, His long fingers resting on my décolleté. My first reaction was that of repulsion, I nearly cringed at the prospect of His murderous hands tasting my delicate flesh. I remembered berating myself for being so taken, so naïve when He touched me, even now I could not deny the electricity that coursed through my veins. Still, I knew what He was capable of, what He had done to me, and I would not soon forget it.

In a breathy voice, He murmured, "Alessandra," I shuddered at the sound of my name on His lips. "Is there something that you wanted to say?"


	24. Dangerously Alluring

**A/N: A big, huge, gigantic 'thank you' goes out to** _Cathedral of Chaos_, **you have no idea how much that helped me!**

_

* * *

_

_Had I wanted to say something? What was I mentioning?_ My words dissipated into thin air as I sat there, Erik lurking behind me. Standing close, _so close_. My inner conscience was scolding me, screaming at me to recoil from His touch, to cease this assault. I knew very well how dangerous Erik was, in more ways than one. Yes, He was a murderer, and yes, He did physically hurt me. So, in that sense, He was a treacherous man. Yet, in a completely different way, the danger was almost _alluring_. Sinister. Seductive. He mixed anger and passion so well, fusing them together in such an inimitable way. It enthralled me, He fascinated me.

Through my experiences, I had come to know and understand many different types of men. There was the rich playboy, bored with the prospect of coming home to his rigid wife every night The lonely heir of royalty, trying to escape a lackluster arranged marriage, the womanizers who made it their sole purpose in life to sleep with as many girls as possible. Every man I had ever known could fit into a specific category, one very predictable form. Erik was in a category all His own.

I did my best to ignore the bothersome voice in my head. When Erik's gloved hands made their way from my neck to the tendrils that hung slack from my loose bun, the voice all but disappeared. He twirled them around His fingers, and brought His face down to the crook of my neck. My eyes fluttered closed when He took a lengthy breath, inhaling the scent of my hair. I could feel the hot, sticky air expel from His mouth onto the heated skin behind my ears. Every hair on my body stood on edge, held hostage by the close proximity Erik enforced on me. Instinctually, I turned my head to meet His. My cheek landed on something cold and tough.

I flinched at the contact. I was expecting to feel warmth beneath my skin, not the cool, porcelain surface of the mask. I was not repulsed by it, but the shock of the unexpected arising disconcerted me, if only for a second. As soon as Erik felt my reaction, He snapped back up, throwing His shoulders back into a dignified stance.

In my mind, during those few fleeting, but precious moments, I wondered if any of it really mattered. The abuse, the imprisonment, the torture, none of it seemed relevant. I came to the realization that when I was with Erik, _nothing _mattered. Nothing but Him. He assumed all control, complete dominance over me. It frightened me, but at the same time, I could not resist it.

I nervously glanced up at Erik, not sure of what type of reaction to expect. He seemed so aloof, so detached, as if that instant of intimacy we just shared failed to exist.

"You were saying, mademoiselle?"

"I…I just wanted to say I was sorry. For your mask."

A menacing eyebrow arched high into His forehead. I could literally see the anger coursing through Him as His nostrils flared with an irate breath.

"I mean, I am sorry for removing your mask without your permission," I stammered, "It won't happen again," I added, desperately trying to redeem myself.

"No. It will not."

* * *

I stood slowly, not wanting to alarm Erik, who was already on edge. He watched me as I gathered the empty glasses from the table, looked around for any place to wash them, and with a shrug set them back down.

"Do you perhaps have a sink to clean these in?"

"Just leave them."

With a nod, I gently moved the two wineglasses to the side, arranging them so that they stood near the corner of the table top. With no further distractions to divert my attention, I shifted uncomfortably on my feet, completely aware of Erik's intent gaze. I thought it was unavoidable, albeit necessary to discuss our _situation_. Erik's personality seemed to border slightly irritated today, a dramatic improvement from His usual murderous rage. I figured now was as good an opportunity as ever to talk.

"Erik, do you think we may speak for a moment?" I asked, glancing over at Him with my tentative eyes.

"What is it that you wanted to discuss?" He inquired with a sigh, and folded His arms across His chest.

"This," I gestured my hand around His home, "I mean surely, you do not wish to keep me down here forever."

"And why not? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"Erik, people will look for me. Sooner or later, Charlotte or M. Giry will take notice of my disappearance and search for me." I tried to keep the irritation in my voice to a minimum.

"And their search will come up empty," He sneered, "I don't know if you had noticed or not, but this location is very difficult to navigate."

I didn't understand why He was being so stubborn. Clearly, He had not thought this little plan of His through. There were faults, holes in the arrangement. If He truly detested me, if He wanted nothing more of me than to end the burden of the secret that I carried, why did He not just kill me? Surely He had means, an extreme motive, and ample opportunity. _Why had He spared me thus far?_

"So, you plan to keep me as a prisoner here. Do you plan to watch over me every second of the day, do you plan to dictate my every action? When I am to eat, when I am to sleep, what I will wear for the day? Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life, Erik?" I screamed, my temper was becoming harder to control with every passing encounter He and I shared. Perhaps, this trait of His was rubbing off on me.

He advanced, shoulders squared with fortitude. I, however, did not cower or retract from Him. I stood, the small of my back painfully pressed into the edge of the table, my eyes focused on His. My hands gripped the rim, my fingernails dug into the solid wood. As much as I feared Him, I knew ultimately that I could not cry and throw a tantrum every time I did not get my way. I had to stand up for myself, I had to fight back. I would more likely die of asphyxiation from the constant torrent of tears before I got what I wanted. And what I wanted was a way out. A way from this morose lair, a way from _Him._

"I will do whatever it is that I please," He growled, shaking with fury.

With a cry of exasperation I threw my arms in the air. "Why don't you just kill me then! I would be better off dead than spending an eternity in this Hell with you!"

* * *

My words seem to echo throughout the great room. I could not have imagined a more appalling noise, a more dreadful sound then those words being repeated over and over again, vibrating off the heavy wooden doors that surrounded us.

I was wrong. Silence. _The silence was far worse_. I longed for Erik to respond, to scream at me, to punish me with that voice that cut through my spine, splintering my body with it's deep resonance. The only sounds were emanating from the maddening drip of the damp cavernous walls, landing with a dull plop onto the stone floors.

My face was still pushed forward in my pathetic attempt to emphasize my point, my eyes still darting dangerously back and forth across Erik's face. Inwardly, I knew that I had not meant a single word of what was said. I could not let Erik in on my little secret however, I had just taken a bold, decisive move against Him, and I deeply desired to feast upon His reaction. I knew He would be angry, furious even! He would have no choice but to punish me for my insolence, for my lack of respect for the almighty Phantom of the Opera.

I waited, with all the patience of a petulant child. It was as if He knew of my anxiety, and played upon it. Taking a long, a very long, drawn out breath before His face would pucker, as if deciding how to respond. This happened several times, and just as I was to have an outburst from the waiting, He spoke.

"Really, Alessandra?" He said it with not so much with a dejected sadness, but a tactful smirk.

"How dare you! Of course-"

"Come now, it's time we stop these childish games, I am growing weary of the repetition. We both know what you really want."

My mouth gaped open, I wobbled my head in an attempt to shake the words out of my ears. "Excuse me? I do not know what you mean, Erik."

"Alessandra," He hissed, stepping closer to me, "Those nights spent before the mirror, pleading, crying out my name."

I turned my head embarrassed, shutting my eyes so He could not see the tears form. I felt something light and airy upon my face. A whisper past my cheek and danced around my earlobe. "I know, Alessandra. I heard _everything_."


	25. The Barriers of Irony

* * *

"Erik, I…How…" I stammered, unable to speak.

"At a loss for words are we? Now what an irony that is, mademoiselle," He leaned back from my face, a look of pure contentment crossed His eyes, now bright and vivid with His sardonic triumph over me.

I turned toward Him, the shame and embarrassment written clearly on my expression. I had done careless and stupid things before, numerous times, too many to count! But this was different. He now held all the knowledge that was capable of ruining me. Destroying my career here at L'Opera was inevitable, for I had pushed the Opera Ghost one too many times. I stood on the edge, with a full view of the chasm that descended into oblivion, and I knew now that my misguided trust would fail me. Erik was to push me over.

"Do not look so surprised! Even before you had decided to divulge your story to me, I knew. Gossip is one of the most treasured pastimes of the _corps_ here. As I said before, Alessandra, I know _everything_ that happens in my opera house."

I felt so helpless, so completely powerless. I wanted to throw away my aggravating pride and grovel at His feet. I wanted to beg Him not to share my secret with anyone else, to tell no one of what He knew.

_Oh! The irony!_

How could I ask Him to keep my secret when it was I who carelessly let His slip out? My father used to scold me for thoughtlessly plucking flowers from their stems when I was a child. He would always tell me, "Whatever you put forth will eventually come back to haunt you, Alessandra. Remember, everything in life must, and always will, come full circle." _How true it was!_

"I know of your past," Erik continued, " I know of your previous _career, _if you could call it that. I know what those men thought of you, how they looked at you. What they imagined doing with you." His eyes glinted with malevolent delight.

His words sounded so sinister, so entirely wicked. He had been cruel before, but now He was a completely different man, a completely different monster.

He outstretched a hand to caress my face, impulsively I slapped it away. My hand struck His wrist with a resounding crack, and I glared at Him. I would not allow Him to degrade me for something I had no control over, something that fate had chosen for me. It was as if it was my anomalous destiny to become a courtesan, and we both knew what a pitiless mistress fate could be.

He stared a moment at His hand, and then gazed at me, curiosity swimming in those vibrant eyes. I knew that so much as touching Erik without His permission was a terrible crime, but striking Him was surely punishable by death. It seems I would now get what I wished for. I braced myself for impact, steadying myself on my feet, but never averting my eyes from His.

"Is that any way to treat a willing customer? Oh! Forgive me! Surely you must require a fee!" Erik threw His hands up in the air and stormed away from the table. Feverishly pacing over to the desk that sat next to the organ, He began rifling through a drawer. It's contents of staff paper spilled out over the edge in His haste.

"I don't want your money," I spat, still clinging to the table top for support.

He stilled. Leisurely he turned around, striding in His effortlessly calculated steps ever closer to me. The sickeningly jovial madness that consumed Him before had disappeared. I feared what emotion had taken its place.

"And why not?" He demanded, gritting His teeth at me.

I said nothing. Anything I would say now would only further condemn me, silence was my best offer.

"Is my face not appealing enough for you? Do you not find me handsome?" A gut-wrenching, twisted laugh exploded from His lungs. "Why will you not accept my business? I am just like every other man!"

"No you are not!" I screeched, stunned at my own reaction. I looked to Erik, who immediately ceased the maniacal laughter, and slid His eyes closed. His lips pressed together tightly, the pain evident.

Softer, more gently, I added, "No Erik, you are not like all the other men. You are different."

* * *

I swallowed my fear and carefully extended my hand to linger on His shoulder. So softly, so gently, I moved it up and down, caressing and comforting the tense muscle. His eyes opened and He looked to me disgracefully, confused and yet delighted. Shameful, like a stolen pleasure was my touch.

He shuddered, but it did not deter me from breaking contact with Erik. Determined to reveal the truth, I forced my eyes on His, their russet depths swimming with tacit secrets waiting to rise from the pits of my heart.

_He knew._ The revelation was terrifying and completely embarrassing. And yet, somehow I felt relief. I felt comfort in knowing that my sniveling, desperate attempts for contact had not been in vain. As foolish and unwise as my disclosure had been to confess to the mirror, it felt like a barrier, a wall had been torn down between us. He now knew of my vulgar past, and for that, I was grateful that the heavy weight which I had been carrying on my shoulders for so long was, at last, lifted.

We seemed to stand like that for a long time, my hand long since given up on its tender touches, and hung limp, supported by Erik's broad shoulder. He had not spoken a word to me since His outburst of rage. As I thought about what He had said to me, a thought crept its way out from the back of my mind. He had remarked, raved about the horrors of His face, and though I had yet to see it, I knew that no matter what lie under that mask, it would not sway my opinion of Erik one way, or another.

Many people were horrified by the grotesque deformation of His face, well 'many' would be an understatement. _All_ persons that had actually seen Him, were absolutely repulsed. Even Christine, who had supposedly loved Him so, could ultimately not look past that macabre face. Or so Charlotte had told me.

_How could I tell Him? How could I make Him understand?_ Beauty, beautiful things had surrounded me all my life. Beautiful couture, beautiful jewels, beautiful men… And yet, with all the splendor and dazzle of these things, they only made me feel emptier, colder inside. I did not care much for appearances, in fact, I absolutely despised the notion of what was considered attractive or in fashion. For the exterior of something is just that, an exterior. A shell, a cover, a mask. Inside, yes inside, was where the true horrors lie, the true deformities. And also, the true beauty.

"Erik?" I squeaked, my voice growing steady and unsure.

He looked up at me, and convinced that I had received His attention, pressed forth.

"Erik, I need to tell you something. I want you to know something," I began. Inhaling a deep, reassuring breath I continued, "It does not matter, you know. None of it matters to me…"

He peered at me, bewildered and perplexed. Taking a step back from me, I could see that I had to reveal myself quickly, already He was melting back His arrogant, detached self.

I sighed, _this was not coming out right._

"What I mean to say is, that your _appearance_ has no bias for me. Erik, I do not care what lies under that mask of yours."

"How can you say that, when you have yet to see it!" He snarled, but somehow, miraculously was able to keep His temper in check. I made sure there was ample distance between our bodies before I continued.

"All my life, beauty has brought me nothing but pain, Erik. Nothing but ugliness," my own eyes were growing teary and wistful as I reflected upon my past. As tragic as it was, I knew that it paled terribly in comparison with the hardships in which Erik had to face. I only hoped that He would accept my offering of empathy, our shared sympathy.

"What would you know about ugliness? What would you, _une beauté parfaite_, like yourself ever understand about the unattractive, the truly repulsive?" He turned and strode away from me, now darting back and forth across the floor, His boots clicking harshly against the stone.

"Please, let me finish! At least let me explain!" I wanted Him to know, I wanted to make Him understand. He granted me my request and stilled, arms folded behind His back, He remained a gentleman. But His eyes deceived them, and they came alive with fiery emotion.

Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and began to tell my story.


	26. My Story

**A/N: Sorry about the delay in updates, I was on vacation for Memorial Day! School's _almost_ out! Whoo-hoo! So I plan on writing a lot more!**

**Anyways, here's the next chapter! R&R purty please!**

* * *

Maybe it was because I had felt condemned down here, that nothing mattered anymore because I would never return aboveground again. Maybe it was because I found it a way to pass the slow, agonizing hours in that shadowy cave. Maybe it was because I wanted Him to know, to understand why I was the way that I was, for Him to feel more comfortable, more at ease with Himself around me. Whatever the reason, I had made up my mind to tell Him, and there was to be no backing out now.

I could have stood there, analyzing my intentions for days, but Erik's impatient stance and agitated glare made me change my mind.

"When I was…_sold_ into the bordello, Erik, I became a different person. My whole perspective on life and love changed, completely changed. I grew up my whole life surrounded by people that raved of my attractiveness…"

"Oh, pity you!" Erik snapped, His hands violently moving from His back and coming to rest at His sides. His hands wrung through the length of His sleeves that hung loosely around His wrists, clenching them as He breathed stridently through His bared teeth.

I held up my hand, gesturing for Him to stop. And with the help of a look of pure desperation from my eyes, He relaxed and motioned for me to continue.

"I grew up a naïve, little thing. From a very early age I was enthralled, fascinated with beautiful things. I marveled at the splendor and delicateness which they possessed. But, it was all for nothing," I paused to blot my eyes with the back of my hand. I hadn't meant to cry, but it was near impossible to control my emotions anymore. "When I came to Audric's estate, I learned the harsh truth. My own beauty, my own face had tricked me. It was because of this that Audric had decided to employ me, and those men to desire me. It did not matter how handsome or attractive those men were, they were all monsters. It was my curse, and it still is…"

My voice trembled and I suddenly shuddered, feeling very cold inside. _This was harder than I thought it was going to be_. I must have been rambling on for five minutes without ever coming to the whole point of my story. And it seemed I never would, for my feelings betrayed me, and I could no longer hold back the stinging gush of tears.

"I'm sorry, Erik. I don't mean to lose myself like this," I sobbed, frantically wiping at my soaking cheeks with my sleeves.

I did not see Him move from His position at the edge of the lake, but all at once, He was beside me. He handed me a handkerchief that seemed to appear out of nowhere, and I gladly accepted it.

He pulled out a chair for me and gently pushed on my shoulders to help me sit down. Then, much to my surprise, He had chosen to sit to the chair alongside it, ignoring the chair at the opposite end of the table where He had sat earlier.

"Perhaps it is my turn to comfort you," He whispered, and I could not stop a small smile from forming on my quivering lips.

* * *

_Had I fainted?_

For there was no way, no possible way, that Erik could be consoling me. Planning another punishment, another devious plot for torture unraveling in His mind were all possibilities. But, suddenly _compassion_? Mere moments ago, He was hurling insults at me, berating for my scandalous past. _And now…_

And now He sits. Beside me. His Hands folded in His lap, long fingers entwining and prodding at His knuckles. I sat and wondered, _if He should try and touch me, how would I react?_ If it was as soft and feathery as when the warm leather was exploring my face, would I have the same response?

I feared His touch, not for the seemingly obvious reason of pain, but of pleasure. _Yes, pleasure._ So rarely, so infrequently has He ever touched me without ill intentions, I knew that if He was miraculously to impose a gentler contact, we would be in danger. For when He touched me, He controlled me.

He controlled my breath when His grip tightened around my throat, He controlled my body when He cornered me into a wall. And He controlled my heart when He caressed me, soothing my skin with His own.

With a final pass over my moist cheeks, I sheepishly handed the handkerchief back to Him, being careful not to actually come in contact His own hand.

"Thank you," I whispered, forcing a rather shy smile.

He nodded politely, and I waited for any sort of response to my story. There was none. Erik sat complacently, staring over the table to the edge of the inky lake. Thinking that I could regain composure and finish what I had started entered my mind. However, I quickly relinquished the notion when the thought of it was already burning at my throat with unshed tears.

Before things could take a turn for the worse, I decided to accept my defeat and withdraw to my room. Slowly, I slid the chair back and rose, smoothing my skirts out of habit rather than the actual need for it. I hesitated saying something, my mouth opened and closed silently several times before I shook my head, and turned away towards the door.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder and I swore I could almost feel my knees melting to the ground.

"Alessandra, wait."

I turned around to find Erik, now fully upright, standing next to me. I angled my head to look inquisitively at His hand that rested deftly on my shoulder, and He followed my gaze. Instantly, He dropped His hold and met my stare with abashed embarrassment.

_How I wish He was not so afraid to touch me!_

In an almost agitated state, I daringly seized His muscular hand with my own softer one, and replaced it back upon my shoulder, gently tracing the raised veins with my fingertips.

I did not find anger on His face, there was no fuming temper bubbling under the porcelain veneer of the mask. He did not immediately shove me away or retreat back. His eyes settled onto my swollen ones, growing large and then suddenly narrowing, as if realizing something for the very first time. And for the very first time, I realize something too.

In His eyes, I found understanding. I saw recognition, comprehension of a similarity we both shared, but never fully understood before. A parallel that binds us both not by choice, but by fate.


	27. The Power of Sound

_Touch_. Such a simple, common thing, completely taken for granted. I never really thought that much into it. Modest kisses upon the hand, a reassuring pat on the shoulder, were all ordinary parts of my every day life. And now, how foreign, how sensual it felt.

Touch. _His touch_.

The only physical bridge built between us was crossed at my fingertips, moving ever so slightly upon Erik's hand. Yet, that simple, ordinary touch felt extraordinary in the strangest sense. There was almost an energy, a pulsing electric current that ran through us, sending stimulating pricks up and down my spine.

His eyes slowly slid close, and I knew, that He too, had felt it. I took the opportunity to look, to actually observe Erik without the threat of being caught in my uncouthly blatant trance. He seemed different now. The danger, that underlying threatening composition that He acquired was still there, and very presently displayed by the way His teeth were bared and gritted, but there was something unusual about Him. Perhaps it had always been there and I was just too distracted, too diverted to take notice. It's true that He was of tall build with commending musculature, but I had always regarded it as a way to flaunt power and authority. Now, it was attractive, in a way. With all the mixed emotions running through my frenzied head, I wondered to myself if I was actually making any sense.

Every limb, every curve, arc, and bend in His body seemed to ooze sensuality. Seemed to exude passion. A dark, alluring, almost sexual power throbbed from Him, shadowing my doubts and insecurities about His motives. _Did I even care anymore?_

I was entranced, captive to His spell. I ached, I actually felt pain from the want, no, the _need_ to touch.

My eyes were aflame with such raw emotion, and my feet grew impatient and heavy. I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet, so that I was leaning forward a bit more. This caused Erik to open His eyes, and upon seeing me in my rather unusual state, cast me a curious look. For a second, I thought I saw His own eyes return the feeling, the want, the _need._ My hopes were soon extinguished.

I had no doubt in my mind that Erik recognized my abrupt desire, and when He carefully brought His free hand up to cover mine, I almost screamed in delight. His hand wrapped around my wrist and removed it from His other. It dropped to my side heavily, and hung limp with disappointment. I opened my mouth to protest, but Erik brought His fingers to my lips, and pressed them closed.

His finger traced the curve of my upper lip with so much tenderness, so much of Himself going into the seemingly simple action. His brow furrowed, and He drew in a shaky breath, whipping His hand away from my mouth.

"Go," He whispered.

"But, Erik I-"

"Go to your room!" His voice rose to a high pitch, and I shook at the sound resonating off the walls in the Great Room.

Instead of turning around, I stepped forward, so confused and intrigued by His behavior, He pulled me forth. His hands flew in front of Him, commanding me to stop, trying to ward me off like some sort of unholy entity.

His voice was frantic now, and I could hear the cracking in His tone, "Go now! Alessandra, leave me!"

He looked on the verge of madness, backing away from me, eyes wide with fear. I felt so helpless, so unwanted, I had no choice but to comply with His demand.

I turned around and dashed to the door, flinging it open and slamming it closed behind me. I pressed my back against it, my palms lie flat on either side of my hips, steadying my shaky frame. Though my breaths were raspy and hurried, I still heard it.

Pressing one ear to the door to confirm, my hand covered my mouth in both surprise and horror.

* * *

They say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. That a fragrant whiff of a treasured aroma can draw out some of your fondest, oldest memories. Can take you back to the innocence of childhood, when mothers would bake sweets for their children, when I would run barefoot into our kitchen in the villa, begging my mother to help her cook. A stroll among gardens, with seasoned flowers clouding your mind in a perfumed haze, stimulating your nose with the pungency.

But with memories, the good must also coincide with the not-so-good. Smells of cheap parfum and breath laden with alcohol also occupy my remembrance. Disconcerting scents of dried perspiration and polluted bed sheets can trigger the most scarring of experiences.

Memories. So, so many of them. Some affectionate, warm, comforting. Some horrific, so unmentionable you pray them erased from your mind completely. But they are there nonetheless, and there they will remain. Forever present, stirring, lurking, _stalking._

And yet, as I stand here, smell, sight, taste, touch, seem completely worthless. They cease to exist in my small world inside this modest boudoir, for in this seemingly normal place, something sinister lurks outside it. In this room, all senses, all memories, all feelings are gone. I can only _hear_.

Sound is the strongest recollection. For as long as I live, as long as I remain breathing on this Earth, I will not forget what I heard on the other side of that door. And I have no doubt that when I die, wherever I am to end up, that noise will haunt me. Pursuing my spirit to the height of the Heavens and seduce it down to the depths of Hell.

_Music_. The most captivatingly assaulting music that had ever graced my ears surrounded me. I could hear the organ's pipes swell with the melody, the titillating notes slicing through the damp air of the cavern, and coming to rest at the threshold of my door. I could feel it trace a path into my body, I could literally feel it taking over. It felt like being pricked by a thousand needles, never cutting too deep to actually cause harm, but deep enough to scar. Such passion, such fervor emanated from it, the music was tangible. It had to be _real. _Corporeal enough that I wanted to touch it, wanted to feel it against my own skin. It consumed me, beckoned me to follow it. To know it. To trust it.

I began clawing frantically at the door handle, fumbling to open it. I let out a frustrated scream of agitation upon realization that it was locked, _He_ must have locked it earlier.

_Was this another punishment?_

To dangle such a beguiling, enthralling thing mere feet from where I stand, but to prevent me from really experiencing it was an entire different kind of torture. I would have gladly served countless sentences in that forest wasteland than spend one more second being tempted and teased with this melody.

My hands clamped around my ears, trying to thwart away the vicious notes that pounded repeatedly into my head. Over and over I cried to stop, but still He played. I sank to the floor, a puddle of flesh sprawled across the chilling concrete, shuddering to the rhythm. I stopped screaming, simply gave up and let the music control. I closed my eyes and took several long, trembling breaths. It was no use.

The music seemed to have reached its crescendo now, and with the final notes, the needle plunged directly, deeply into my heart.

As quickly as the song had started, it had ended, now being replaced by an entire different tune. Emotion in its rawest form seeped from the Great Room, trickling through the cracks in the door. Entering my room, slowly but still strikingly.

I lay there motionless, the calm after the storm. I blinked my eyes quite profusely, urging my body to come out of this spellbinding trance.

The sound was so different now. It was not explicit, not darkly tantalizing. It did not mockingly stir my passionate desires like the previous song. It was sad and mournful. Like a rueful requiem composed from the dimmest depths of one's heart. Each stanza telling part of a story, weaving unspoken words into a tangled web of tragedy. As the music slowly began to fade, the power it had over me slowly began to dissipate also. I sat up, supporting my weight with my arms spread out in front of me. Conscious, rational thought began again, and I feared what my own mind would make of this incident.

The contrast between the two symphonies was alarming, and instead of reflecting on the effects of the sounds, I instantly thought of Erik.

_What had I done to spark this, to set Him in such a mood?_

I thought of Him hunched over the organ, His elegant hands gliding over the ivory keys as He played. Caressing them as He would a lover, with such tenderness and care. And I was jealous.

Jealous of something I would never have, something I never _could_ have. Something that I was never supposed to have, but something that I now realized I wanted.


	28. Resemblance

The music never really stopped, even now I still hear it. Faintly, softly repeating it's melody in my head, wrapping it's analgesic grip around my consciousness. Lucidity came and for brief moments I was frightened, fearful of what I had just experienced. Then, like a powerful dose of insensate medication, the music returned and soothed my worries.

This constant shift of emotion paralyzed me, and I was unable to move my body off the floor, which I am sure would be quite chilling, If I could feel it. I lay there for hours that felt like days, each second dripping down the bedroom walls at a maddeningly sluggish pace. In the harmony-induced haze, I was quite sure that my mind was playing tricks on me. Several times I saw Erik walk through the door, gliding in like a spirit condemned to haunt me. On His first few visits, He dared not move more than a few feet from the frame. He would walk in, still in full possession of His confidently arrogant gait, mumble a few words, and then leave.

When He managed to make His way over to my cowering body, I knew I had to be hallucinating. He stood over me, a look of wonder and curiosity spread across His face. He then kneeled down beside me and brushed a few wisps of hair from my forehead, smoothing the concentrated wrinkles out with His thumb. I immediately reacted and bolted upright.

_This was real. He is real._

I shuffled on my hands and knees to the far corner of the room, and buried my head in my arms. Rocking back and forth, I hummed along to the symphony that was playing inside my mind. I shut everything else out, the room, myself, Erik…

Until there was only the music.

"Alessandra!"

Erik grabbed my shoulders and began to shake them, removing me from my trance. I stared up at Him, completely unaware of what had just occurred. Everything seemed to come about in slow motion, every syllable spoken taking an eternity to emerge from my mouth. Every breath intensified, oxygen transformed into an almost unbearable weight to take in and draw out.

"Erik," I breathed, turning towards Him.

"Are you well?" He asked, running a searing hand down my arm. I glanced at it, half expecting to see the skin blistering from the contact, but quickly returned my attention to the man sitting before me.

I nodded, and taking that as a signal to move forward, Erik rose, pulling me up with Him. When He removed His hands, I swayed, and they returned to my shoulders, steadying me.

Perception and logical thought had returned to me, and only now did I think of asking Erik about the music.

"Erik, what was that?"

His eyes shot up, a bit shocked by my audacity. "That," He turned from me and paced around the bed, "that was pain."

"I don't understand," I admitted, "That music was so…beautiful, and yet bruising at the same time. It made me feel alive, Erik. Uninhibited, untamed."

He turned around sharply, pieces of His ebony hair whipping from place atop His usually slicked back coif. A menacing eyebrow raised to the crown of His forehead as He stepped toward me.

"And yet," I continued, "it drew me to it, compelled me to follow it. When I found I could not, it _hurt_ me. I physically felt pain as it beckoned me and when I could not return it's summon, it was almost too much to bare."

I looked up at Him hopefully, "Is that what you meant by pain, Erik?"

"No."

"Then what did you-"

"Physical pain is nothing but an illusion!" He shouted, clenching His fists at the sides of His waist. He bounded toward me, and I all but slammed my head against the wall as I struggled to move away from Him.

"Erik!" I cried as He brought His hands to the base of my neck. But, instead of throttling my throat, His hand slid past it to my hair. Slowly, He wound a tendril around His finger, taking great time to execute every twirl of His fingertip.

His eyes glazed over, becoming glassy and distant. I recognized the same stare from our previous encounter in this room. I silently prayed it would not end the same way.

Just above a whisper, His voice trembling with emotion, He spoke.

"You look so much like her."

* * *

As much as it hurt me to hear those words from Erik's mouth, it also caused me to realize something. My only way out, was sardonically, my only way in. I knew Erik was not always in a perfect frame of mind, and I admit I felt rather guilty at the stratagem that was rapidly forming in my mind.

No, I was not Christine. I was not, and never would be who He needed me to be. But, if I reminded Him of her,_ if I could convince Him that I was her…_

I blinked furiously, trying to erase the tainted thoughts that swirled round like a whirlpool, helplessly dragging me to the bottom. Shaking His hands off of me, I moved to the opposite end of the boudoir.

My features looked nothing like the woman's in the charcoal portrait. I had a stronger, noticeably darker appearance, whereas Christine was softer, much more delicate. Her face was innocent, angelic even. I, however, was far from innocent, the slight lines forming on my forehead revealing years of hardships. In fact, physically, there really were no parallels between us at all.

And yet, He noticed something. Erik sensed some invisible link between us that I could never understand. I dared not ask, for I think He barely comprehended the reason Himself.

I stood, alone, intently watching His every movement. The rise and fall of His shoulders with every breath He took, the furrowing of His brow, the way He awkwardly walked over to me, head downcast. He was so unsure of Himself now, the arrogance and sophistication vanishing before my eyes. Without looking up at me, He spoke in hushed tones.

"Please, don't turn away from me. You know I could never deny you anything, Christine. Why will you refuse me now?"

Every hope, every hidden desire I once secretly harbored plummeted as the words fell from His mouth. He never wanted me, and I knew now He never would.

I stifled a sob at the sound of her name. I bit down on my lip and tried to focus in on the physical pain. Tears loomed menacingly on my lashes, I could feel my throat begin to burn. I bit down harder, trying to lose myself in the sharp sting. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth, but I could feel nothing, physically. Inside, my heart was breaking. A cold iron fist tore my heart open, the very act of breathing became painful. I knew now what Erik had meant. Physical pain was a veil, a delusion. It did not matter how hard my lip throbbed, how much my jaw ached, how bruised my neck was. All of it paled in comparison to the pain I felt inside.

Rejection was something I had never experienced before. Never was I declined anything. Audric saw to it that I received any garment, any parfum, any wine that I so desired. Now, without ever even asking, I was denied the one thing I wanted most. Erik.

I panicked, and the stubborn, foolish girl I despised emerged again. I knew it was impossible to be Christine, but I would be damned if I didn't try. All my life, I had been trained to be someone else. Every night, I was someone else. He would not deny Christine, He said so Himself. _How could He deny me now?_

"Touch me like you touched her," I pleaded, grabbing Erik's hand and placing it roughly onto my décolleté. He gazed up at me, completely dumbfounded.

"Alessandra, forgive me," He stuttered. I felt Him pulling back, but I only tightened my grip on His hand.

"I can be what you want, Erik. Let me be what you need," I purred, my old tactics coming back into play. I shot Him a dangerous glare, my lips forming into a seductive smirk. When He failed to move, I took His other hand and placed it below my neck. Trancelike, He slowly moved His hands up and down my exposed neckline. He was so concentrated, so focused on the movement, He could not see my uneasiness. I could hear Him murmuring her name, and I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sound of her name upon His lips.

Instinctually, my hands slid down His arms, coiling my fingers into the material of His evening coat. I arched my head back, allowing Him better access to my skin. An unfamiliar sensation ran deep into the pit of my stomach.

More. I needed more from Erik. I needed to be wanted, I needed Him to show me how much He needed me.

"Erik," I breathed, "I want you to kiss me like you kissed her."


	29. An Impossible Past

He leaned in, His lips hovering a hairbreadth's away from mine. So close I could see every little line indented into the flesh, I memorized them for fear I would never again have the opportunity. His breathing turned ragged and each tuft of air that blew onto my forehead made my composure slip further and further away from me.

His cheek twitched and I sensed His apprehension. As difficult as this was for me, I could not begin to imagine how complicated this was for Erik. I wondered if He really thought me to be Christine. If His delusions proved true, and He finally slipped off the edge into insanity. A more dangerous hope arose, a hope that Erik did, in fact, know it was _me_. Me, and not His precious little _chanteur_ that stood before Him. I extinguished the possibility of the latter. For now.

I stared up at Him, helplessly. Moments ago, I _had_ been in control. I had initiated this dicey game, and somehow Erik had managed to take the reins, once again.

An awkward moment settled in as His eyes meet mine, and like a shy little girl, I avert them, closing them with haste as I wait. I feel His fingertips graze my forehead, tracing a line down my nose, over my lips, and my chin. They traced their way down the column of my throat, lingering on my pulse point that beat mercilessly with anticipation. His hands continued downward, spreading apart at my collarbone. Nothing about this encounter was modest, yet Erik was ever the gentleman and completely avoided traveling where the neckline disappeared into the curve of my breasts.

It was agonizing, His hands exploring my body, but our lips remained parted. They taunted me with their imminence to my own, and I could slowly feel my eagerness take control.

Patience is a virtue, but I had never been virtuous. And I did not intend on starting now.

"Erik. Kiss me, like her. Like Christine," I begged.

With a whimper of pleading, I strained my neck forward in an audacious attempt to end my agony. Seconds ticked away slowly, and still I waited! Opening my eyes in the confusion I saw Erik before me, staring at me with horror.

His hands froze instantly. Warmth dissipated, and an all too familiar chill set in. The large slabs of ice were heavy on my heaving chest, pushing against my heart with deviant resistance. I look to His face for answers, but He turns away, exhaling a breath that must have been pent-up inside for so long. So very long.

I removed my hands from His and bring them up to His chin, trying to block His face in so He has no choice but to look at me. Flesh contacts flesh, and He shrinks away, recoiling from my touch like a poison that must be avoided at all costs.

"What is wrong?" I ask. But, He says nothing. He only backs away, and pushes the door open. Slithering out through a crack, He closes it behind Him.

_He left me. Waiting._

Still, I waited. I dared to offer hope that He would come to His senses and return to me. That He was just nervous or uncertain or shy. Excuse after excuse filtered through my mind, passing through me along with many uncounted seconds. Each slipping away from my grasp, as my hands still groped at the thin air as I was reaching for His face.

I was so shocked, so appalled. And yet, so confused. I stood there, as clear as the rising sun, offering myself to Him. Offering_ Christine_ to Him, and He refused. Me. He refused me. The jealousy came quickly and very suddenly.

He could not accept me simply because I was not her and I never would be. I was a complete fool to believe otherwise.

_Jealousy._ It was maddening.

I groped at the dresser ledge, grabbing whatever heavy object I could find. Without even looking to see what was in my hand, I hurled it at the door with all my strength. Screaming as it crashed into the wood and shattered into pieces with sharp cracks onto the cold stone floor.

I did not mean to lose control, and I most certainly did not mean the venomous waste that leaked from my mouth next, "Why do you not want me, Erik? Am I not good enough for you? Or do you reject me because I am not her?"

I was enraged. Not angry with myself and not angry with Erik. But angry with, _her_. That stupid, spineless girl that had destroyed Him so. That could not love Him as He loved her. She was gone now, and there was no hope of her ever returning. And still, He pined. Still, He obsessed.

I was infuriated that fate had not allowed us to meet before the _incident_. How both of our lives would have been different! How wonderful life could have been…

It was useless to dwell on the past, the impossible. The past could not be changed, no matter how much, Erik or I, wished it could. But the future, was in our hands. In my hand, that reached for the door knob, turning it slowly. The door creaked open, and I poked my head around the edge.

Erik stood in front of me, no more than a few inches from the door. Tears flowing on His stained cheeks, I hesitantly stepped forward to brush them away. He was hurting, and it was all my fault. It killed me to see Him in so much pain, pain that I had caused.

"She's gone, Erik. But, I am here. Now. I am here."

"Alessandra," He moaned my name as He collapsed into my arms. Reciting it over and over again into my chest as He wept.

"_My_ Alessandra."


	30. The Innocence and The Guilt

**A/N: Updated! I left out an important part, sorry for the confusion!**

* * *

In that one moment, those two words could not have had a more profound impact on my life. My name rolling off His tongue was the sweetest, and also the most distressing, thing I had ever heard.

I was torn. One part of me flooded with joy that I did have a place in Erik's heart, or at least His consciousness for the moment. The other, frightened that I now occupied that daunting, arcane territory.

In those last final days, how could I, or He, know that those two words were the beginning of the end?

_"My Alessandra."_

_His. His Alessandra._

So many questions were forming, overwhelming in number and complexity. I could not help but think this was all some dream, or rather some distorted nightmare.

From the moment Erik carried me through the mirror, dragging me down into His lair, it was quite clear that things were to be unclear. Events seemed to blend together, making memories that I was sure happened just several hours before, fuzzy and muddled. Tensions were high, the stress of being taken prisoner and thrust into this perpetual kingdom of darkness weighed heavily upon my senses, until it became near impossible to distinguish fact from fantasy.

It was then that I realized that Erik was comparable to a drug, of sorts. Inducing pleasurable highs with euphorious reactions to touch and sound. Everything amplified, everything augmented. Everything was made to seem grandiose and ethereal. As if Erik merely teased me with the prospect of 'what could be', flaunting the mystery and intrigue in front of me, so near I could grasp it.

And then…

The drug would wear off. As all drugs eventually do.

When coming off the high, one must expect to drop to a sickening low.

I was falling.

The very aura Erik possessed melted before my eyes as He sniffled back sobs in my arms. The spell was broken. There was no captivating music to be heard, no ghostly touches whispering across my skin. There was just Erik. Gone was the unfeeling man, the distant man who seemed ever detached. Ever aloof.

Broken was the man in front of me. Aching for something, someone, that was impossible to have. And then, the whisper of my name upon His trembling lips. Those twisted lips that were usually formed into smirks and scowls, were now uttering my name. In want. In need. My name and not hers. For once not hers.

I would have been lying to myself to say that I was not completely ashamed of my actions. And that disgusted me even further. My head was a chaotic frenzy of emotions. Guilt, hope, fear, determination… _oh! The guilt_! If Erik was a broken man before, He was shattered beyond repair now.

How long could I put up with this charade? How long could He? How far would I go?

"Alessandra!"

_For once not hers._

I closed my eyes, smiling lightly and relishing in the sound of Erik's mumbling. Without explanation, my mind ceased its frenzied pace.

It froze. I froze.

A sinister grin spread across my face, a maddening, fanatical expression coming alive.

My name! And not hers! Not hers!

Erik was here. With _me_. Crying out my name, choosing _me_!

I had to stifle my mouth to keep a wicked laugh from escaping. I could feel myself slipping further away from reality, from sanity, with each passing moment. There were still obstacles, I had to remind myself. Still barriers to overcome. My methods were not moral, even by an opera ghost's standards. _But neither were His_. With another pitiful whimper from the mass I cradled in my arms, I felt the last of my mind wither away. _But they are working._

_One could live with guilt_, I reasoned to myself.

* * *

Everything I secretly wanted was in reach. Every hope and desire that was pushed back into the deepest parts of me were finally emerging. And all I would have to do to obtain them…

Erik shifted under me, and I was caught off guard when He pulled away suddenly. His eyes were swollen and puffy, His cheeks flushed. With a trembling mouth He hung His head sullenly.

It was then that I noticed the mask, or lack thereof. Slightly askew and crooked from the burrowing of His face, the bottom portion of it had been slipped away from its bondage. Marred flesh around the right half of His cheek was revealed. Pale skin, so transparent, tiny blue veins could be seen pulsing beneath the flesh. To His hairline the skin took on a jaundice hue, the bones that should have been His jaw line were bent and malformed. Assembling a rather twisted structure that in no way resembled a face. Harsh lines of bone jutted out at various angles, stretching the frail skin so tight, I was afraid it would break the surface.

It was unlike anything I had ever seen. I had reasoned to myself before, that no matter what lay under the visor, my feelings would remain the same regardless. That Erik's physical deformity would have no impact on my actions, for His physical features mattered not.

All sense of those silent promises abandoned me, and I was left quaking in the shadow of His face.

Standing there, seeing the defect fully, for the first time, frightened me beyond belief. My eyes went wide in astonishment and I gasped at the sight that was now before me. Half of His breathtaking, perfect face gazed at my reaction in bewilderment. Then, sensing my discomfort, the other ghastly half, twisted in recognition.

Still dazed, I offered my hand to the emaciated skin, brushing my fingertips along the distorted, skeletal frame that was the right half of His face. My mouth forming a breathless 'oh', as I traced the features of this side, giving it the same attentive care as I had given the other half in the hallways of the dormitories so, _so_ long ago.

I smiled up at Him, my eyes weary and swimming with apprehension. It still frightened me, still stirred up shock that was deep inside of me, but I was able to look beyond it. To see past what so many others could not.

Like an instinctual reaction, Erik's hand quickly replaced the mask back unto His complete face. I swallowed hard, and composed myself.

"Erik, please. It does not matter," I said, a little too quickly, as if trying to quell my tension.

"You promised, you said you would not look under the mask. You must _never_ look under the mask!"

His reaction was volatile. I tried to take Him into my arms again and soothe the hurting, make Him forget what I had done, but He flung my hands away. The tears of sadness that lingered on His lashes were brushed away hastily, and a more fiery visage took shape.

"You…you made me believe, I thought…" His words were pained and stammered.

Then, a piercing cry erupted from Him, plunging into me painfully. "You lie! You lied to me, Alessandra! You deceived me!"

My mouth hung open stupidly, for I could think of nothing to say to alleviate His pain. I only bowed my head, tears dripping silently onto the floor. I had misled Him. I knew it was wrong, oh! It was horrible of me to do so! But, I could not help it. I seemed my only way in to Him, the only way to make Him feel for me as He did for her.

And then, the mask. The horrible disfigurement I promised never to see, a betrayal, a treachery of the worst sort.

"Erik, please. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I only wanted to…" I gently raised my hand to caress His arm, but He recoiled back. Pointing an accusing finger at me, He only continued to mumble.

_"Liar. You lied!"_

_No._

Like frigid water splashing on my face and bringing me back to my senses, Erik's tears had managed to seep through the fabric of my bodice. His words like whipping wind, freezing my chest, and ceasing my very breaths. _I could not…I can not!_

If this was what it took, I did not want Erik this way. Pain of the worst sort, repressed memories, a doomed love that would not ever be returned. This was not what I wanted at all. _Oh! God! What have I done?_

Repulsed by my own actions and thoughts, I shrank away from Erik, leaving Him cradling His face in His hands, as I retreated across the Great Room. I stumbled over the rocky floor, clutching one hand to my mouth to smother the cries of despair that squeaked out. I staggered across His desk, clutching the edges for support and knocking over several stacks of paper to the ground in my vain attempt to steady myself. I needed desperately to move as far away from Him as possible, I could not bear to see another tear fall because of me.

The clutter I had made sprawled out across the foot of the desk, and I lost my footing trying to trek through it. I tumbled to the stone, landing on my hands and knees. I rocked myself back and forth, my scream so intense it was not audible. My mouth was open in agony, contorted with the silent scream that twisted my lips, stretching them so far I feared they would split apart.

I had ruined everything with my selfishness. I was a burden, an intolerable thing that was utterly incapable of sentiment. _Love?_ I had never been in love, nor loved by any man in return. What I felt for Erik could not have been love. People in love did not purposefully hurt each other, did not lie in each other's faces, did not deceive. And now…_ He will never love you, foolish girl! He_ hates _you_! I shook my head slowly as my mind finally came upon the truth, what I had been denying, wishing against for so long.

When I could no longer expel any more breath from my soundless cry, I sucked some back, screeching into the floor. I pounded my ailing hands into the stone, breaking the wounds open again. They bled, but I cared not. Leaning forward and supporting myself on my elbows, I ran my hands across my face and through my hair, all the while my body rocking with the violent sobs.

I waited there. All the while expecting to feel a comforting hand upon my shoulder, the strong, sinewy lengths lifting me up to support my trembling frame. I waited for Him to come and rescue me, as He had done many times before. I waited for Him to come and forgive me, even though I knew He never would.

Through blurry eyes, I chanced a look back in Erik's direction. He was not staring wide-eyed with pity or pardon, His brow was not furrowed in rage. His mouth hung slack, no smirk, no sneer marked. Only the thin lips drawn taught around His teeth bore the evidence that He was, at the very least, feeling _something._

He stared at me, His eyes directly upon my recoiled frame. Then, without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, or the cock of His head in consideration, He turned and disappeared behind a door. Closing it with enough force to make the cavernous walls shake from the exertion.

I winced as the slam vibrated through the Great Room. I remained there, on the unfeeling ground, spread out on my hands and knees for several minutes. Drawing shaky, uneven breaths in through my body in a hopeless attempt to extinguish the portentous coldness I felt settling in.

I knew it was no use waiting for Him to change His mind. I knew that this is what had to be.

Defeated, utterly and completely defeated. The blood from my injuries dripped onto my lips, and the metallic taste sent back a pang of remembrance of earlier. When Erik and I had been discussing pain. I wondered which would be remembered in my mind, the memories or the feelings they emitted. The pain that seared. The remorse that scarred.

Weakly, I clawed my way back to my room, utilizing every ounce of waning strength I had left in my body. And with a final glance behind, in that pathetic hope that He would be there, I returned to the bed. Collapsing, onto the coverlet, I prayed for the numbness of sleep to come and take me.


	31. False Flesh

* * *

I lay, rigid as a corpse, for uncounted hours. My eyes planted on the ceiling above me, though I was not looking at it. Barely conscious, my breaths were cataleptic, serene even. No thoughts within me, for I dared not to think. Dared not to reflect on what had happened earlier.

I struggled, in vain, to sleep. But, try as I might, I could not force my eyes to close. For when they did, I would impulsively open them again, in alarm that I would miss His slinky form sliding silently into my room. Moving through the shadows, until He was near enough to smell the lingering candle smoke that absorbed into His overcoat. Into His crisp, white dress shirt, and onto His…

Perturbed thoughts awoke me from me sleepless slumber and coerced me out of bed. I knew it was irrational, dangerous even, to leave my temporary sanctuary, but I felt that familiar sense of curiosity rear it's ugly head.

Hours, _yes! I'm sure! Hours!_ had passed, without a sound. Without a single noise to indicate that Erik was still here.

Guardedly, I slowly opened the door, careful to avoid any squeaks that would alert Him of my presence. I peered around the frame to find that most of the candles had burnt out, plunging the Great Room into a velvety blackness that, strangely enough, did not disconcert me. I felt an odd peace of mind knowing that even Erik was human and would not be able to see me through the cover of darkness. I nodded, assuring myself, for I did not want to ponder the alternative.

I slipped around the door and waited several seconds for my eyesight to adjust, before beginning my venture around the room. I treaded lightly around the pile of papers, now blood stained and soiled, that I had created earlier. Remembering my hands, I brought them up to my face to examine them. From the throbbing that radiated, I was happy to find that they were still attached to my body. The blood had clotted, and the crusty remnants crackled over my palms as I attempted to brush it away.

A faint snap startled me, and my head shot up. Eyes wide, I scanned the room for the creator of the sound. I felt my pulse quicken, and I contemplated making a dash back to the safe haven of my room. I began to turn around when a hazy glow caught my attention. It was leaking out from the bottom of a door, near the very corner of the Great Room. A door, a rather simple looking one, that I had managed to overlook earlier.

Drawn to it, I stepped forward and placed my hand atop the exterior. My mind was at war with itself, wanting so desperately to open it and find out what it was that produced the glow, but terrified of what I might discover. A small moan, barely audible, drifted to my ears. Now it was impossible to resist. That small noise, that so tempted my curiosity, sealed my fate. With a deep breath, I began to turn the handle. With painfully slow precision, I swung the door out, and glanced inside.

"Erik?" I breathed softly.

I instantly regretted making any sound.

He was there, spread out across an elaborate Persian rug, on the floor of this, this…room. If one could call this tomb, a residence. Black velvet was draped everywhere, covering the walls were staffs of sheet music were not haphazardly tacked on. A few candles, were dimming upon Gothic candelabras, casting flames that were low, and almost mournful. A coffin taunted me from the corner of the room, but before I could even begin to fathom the strangeness of these surroundings, I felt myself jump back in dread.

_"Oh God!"_

I gasped, finding myself staring face-to-face with the one thing that filled me with hatred, yet enthralled, me the most.

* * *

_Christine._

The woman that had tormented me from the hundreds of sketches Erik had strewn about, was now before me. Though I had never physically seen her before, the resemblance was uncanny.

And now she was here, li_ving, breathing flesh._

I felt myself jump back, sending several papers to the floor as my back hit the wall. I stammered, thinking of something to say, thinking of _anything_ to say. But what would I say to her?

Should I scream at her for being so utterly foolish? Should I pity her, and comfort her for the hardships she has had to face?

She stood across from me, as still as a statue. Her arms hung limply at her sides, her face, placid and devoid. Her perfect porcelain skin glowed from beneath the thin veil she wore over her face, her chocolate curls cascading over her shoulders. An elaborate ivory gown clung to her curves, yards upon yards of lace. She looked every inch the perfect doll I had always envisioned her as.

I was nearly wheezing from the shock of finding someone else in the room, yet she remained calm and composed, her mouth never moving from the slight frown itseemed eternallyset in. I stepped forward, nearing myself closer to her tiny frame that stood in the corner of the room.

As I drew nearer, I noticed that something was not quite right. Covered in shadows, it was hard to distinguish _what_ exactly was off about Christine. I stopped several inches away from her body, and with a voice that was nary a whisper, uttered her name so softly.

She did not move, she did not even blink. Her eyes stared straight ahead, looking directly at me, but not seeing anything.

When there was no response, I asked again, amplifying my voice.

"Christine?"

Still, nothing.

Perhaps, she was in shock. Maybe something terrible had happened whilst I was feigning slumber in my room. I gave a quick glance to Erik, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully upon the floor. He lay on His stomach, arms folded under Him. His hair hung chaotic around His face, bits of white mask showing through in random places.

Whatever had transpired certainly could not have been pleasant, and with a grimace on my face when that morose coffin passed by my line of sight, I turned back to the woman in front of me.

I reached out my arm, to bring her back to reality and out of this peculiar trance she was currently in. When the sweaty flesh of my hand came in contact with her bare arm, I screamed aloud.

Her skin was cold and hard. _And not skin at all._


	32. Obsessions

The first thing that came to mind…_oh, I cannot remember what I thought!_ but it was horrible. So horrible.

The feel, just the sensation, of the solid wax beneath my fingertips made my skin crawl. For that is what Christine was comprised of. Not flesh, but wax.

A mannequin stood before me. Not a woman, not a human being, but a _doll_, so life-like in appearance, I had been quite convinced that Christine had somehow managed to find her way back to Erik's home.

And for a second, in that single moment, when I first laid eyes upon her, despair hit me like a wave crashing upon shore. Erik would have what He always wanted, what He dreamt only of.

I turned away from it. No longer able to look at the pseudo Christine, the Christine so perfect. So pure and angelic, staring at me through those lifeless eyes. Those cerulean orbs that seemed bottomless, but retained no depth. Her mouth always frowning, her two rosy lips clasped together, wanting to speak words that would never come.

I focused in on the blackness of a velvet curtain that hung across from me. I was afraid, so terrified to let my mind wander. An unnerving replica of a lost love, that ghastly coffin… I found myself asking, 'How deep did Erik's obsessions run?'

_Was I becoming one of them?_

I could not stand to be in here a second longer. The countless sketches and musical staffs upon the walls, the gloomy billowing draperies, all felt like they were closing in on me. Suffocating me, stifling my thirst for the fantasy that no longer existed.

The heat radiating from the candles was too much, I could already feel my stomach rolling with nausea.

I turned to flee out of the door, but lost my footing on some object that lay, unbeknownst to me, near Erik's side. I landed on my knees next to His torso, as gracefully as one could manage. My face resting mere inches from the item that had caused my fall.

It was a small, wooden box. Surely, it was closed and sealed earlier, as the lock had indicated. But now, it was open, the key poking out through the folds in Erik's palm, the contents of the container spilling out over the carpet.

Small vials filled with clear liquids were scattered about. Several glass tubes accompanied them upon the floor. Curiously, I picked one of the tubes up and rolled it between my fingers.

_Oh, Erik! What have you done?_

My eyes went wide, and it became impossible to catch my breath.

With a gasp of realization, I turned to Erik, fearful that I would find Him lying dead next to me. I struggled rolling His massive frame over to His back, but determination overpowered my physical weakness.

His mask, was still intact. The other side of His face, seemed in greater disarray than what I had found under the covering earlier. His skin was slick with sweat, and took on a strange yellow tint. His mouth hung open, distorted in such a disturbing way, open as if He meant to scream, but could only manage a sob.

I began to shake Him, screaming His name over and over again as I wept over Him. I brought my hands up to His mouth, to feel if any air was escaping His dormant form. In a panic, I realized that I could not feel anything. I slammed my head down upon His chest and strained my hearing to listen for breath, a heart beat, anything that would indicate He was still alive.

I knew nothing of how to revive a man, and far less about the side effects of the serum that lay beside Him. I took hold of His arm, the sleeve was already rolled up, revealing the veins that were purpled and exhausted. I ran my thumb along the back of His forearm, hoping to erase the small punctures with my touch.

Seizing His face between my palms, I shook Him more. I alternated between soothing His brow with my hands, then recoiling away from Him, sinking back onto my knees in despair. Then, when I could stand the distance no longer, I was back at His side, crying His name repeatedly, begging for Him to answer.

"I promise, Erik. I promise I won't lie anymore. I promise. I'll do whatever it is that you ask of me," I felt myself start to grow weaker as time went on, the adrenaline slowly leaving my veins, "Come back. Please, come back."

I lay my head back upon His chest again, softer this time, and wrapped my arms around His waist. I had stopped crying, but the tears still leaked from my eyes, pooling on the linen of His shirt. I closed them, praying that when I opened my eyes, His own would be there to greet mine.

* * *

Opening my eyes was not an option. To let light penetrate the dark pits I had allowed myself to sink into would surely mean death. Not only the death of Erik. No, there was much more at risk here.

My head was pounding against His chest, and for a moment, it seemed as if His pulse had returned. Beating steadily against my temples. All too soon did I realize that it was my own blood, thumping at the walls of my veins.

I had never felt so helpless in my life. I desperately wanted to take some heroic measure and bring Erik back from the world beyond this, but found that I did not know how. I did not even know where to begin. I was too weak, too afraid…

The only obstacle between myself and the horrible truth that lie before me, _beneath me_, was the fragile skin of my eyelids. The thin flesh gripped tightly closed, protecting me, shielding me from the truth. For if I were to open them, if I were to somehow manage to lift the weighty tissue, the reality would crush me.

I could not fathom the possibility of Him being dead. Yet, I could not deny it either.

For if He was gone, this was the kind of respite that one did not return from. Ever.

Never would I know what could have been. And the not knowing was enough to drive me mad.

Everything with Erik was always indefinite, I could never figure out what He had planned next. What wheels were turning in that frantic mind of His.

_Never_ was definite. _Never_ was final.

I began to weep again, more violent this time. The tears coming through faster and faster as I shuddered at the coldness that crept through my body.

Grief can make one do things they never thought themselves capable of before. In my case, the grief caused me to think the thoughts I would never have dared. Thoughts, as true as they may be, were not exactly rational in the sanest of minds…

_Erik was dead._

_Below me, Erik_ is _dead._

"Oh Erik! My poor Erik! What have you done?"

_We could have had everything, Erik! I would have given you all of me! And now…_

With these thoughts came the most startling of revelations. That tiny spark that ignited within me upon finding His inert form on the ground, suddenly burst into flame…_Did I long to die with Him?_

We would be together then! Accomplishing in death what we could not in life, our bodies resting beside one another. Forever. For all eternity.

That sobered me, and in an instant I sprang up from His body. Kneeling beside Him, staring down at Him with both dismay and intrigue.

_How easy it would be!_

I unconsciously felt around Erik's arm, tracing my way down to His hand where the syringe was clasped tightly in His palm. I closed my fingers around the cool, glassy exterior, and swiftly pried it from His grasp. The clear liquid swished around the vial, swirling about in the most enchanting of ways.

It appeared to be some sort of pain reducer, a form of opiate; morphine, I guessed. The bottle rested beside Erik's hip, the liquid nearly drained from its container. I picked it up and held it close to my face.

There was only a small amount of the drug left. It was enough, I estimated. _It had to be enough._

The morphine looked so _appealing._

With one quick prick of my arm, it could all be over. The pain, the sorrow, the guilt, the music…

Without regard, without thought, or sense I carefully placed the needle into the bottle. The fluid slowly filled the syringe, the crystal solution bubbling up until it reached the top of the tube.

I slowly rolled the sleeve of my gown up, staring transfixed, at the crook in my arm.

I gave a final glance back down to Erik, and with a sharp intake of breath, prepared to die.

* * *

As the needle entered my arm, something stirred beside me.

Erik's leg suddenly jerked, kicking me roughly in the side as I toppled to the ground. The syringe skittering across the ground, bouncing off the rug and landing on the stone with a crack. The glass shattered, spilling the contents onto the rigid floor. The morphine made a trail before me, weaving streams of glossy trickles as it dissipated into the stone.

I was still staring, dumbfounded at my arm. My hand still poised over my veins, ready to plunge the serum into my skin. The only evidence, the only reminder, a drop of red, red blood that seeped through the needle prick.


End file.
